-fe.^r^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  George  Papashvily 


C( 


7 


X... 


GLORIA 


A  Novel 


By  MRS.  E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH 

Author  of 

"The  Unloved  Wife,"  "Lilith,"    "Em,"    "Em's  Husband," 

"  For  Whose  Sake,"  "Why  Did  He  Wed  Her?" 
"The  Bride's  Ordeal,"  "  Her  Love  or  Her  Life,"  Etc. 


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By  MRS.  E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH 

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CAPITOLA'S  PERIL 

CRUEL  AS  THE  GRAVE 

"EM" 

EM'S  HUSBAND 

FOR  WHOSE  SAKE 

ISHMAEL 

LILITH 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATE 

THE  CHANGED  BRIDES 

THE  HIDDEN  HAND 

THE  UNLOVED  WIFE 

TRIED  FOR  HER  LIFE 

SELF-RAISED 

WHY  DID  HE  WED  HER 

GLORIA 

DAVID  LINDSAY 


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Copyright,  1877  and  189' 

By  ROBERT  BONNER'S  SONS 

Renewal  granted  to  Mrs.  Charlotte  Southworth  Lawrence,  1905 

"GLORIA" 


Printed  by  special  arrangement  with 
STREET  &  SMITH 


GIFT 


GLORIA 

CHAPTER   I 

A  SPOILED  BEAUTY 

Her  eyes  flashed  fire !  Convulsive  rage  possessed 
Her  trembling  limbs  and  heaved  her  laboring 

. breast ; 

Blind  to  the  future,  by  this  rage  misled, 
She  pulled  down  ruin  on  her  reckless  head. 

DRYDEN. 

"DAVID  LINDSAY,  will  you  marry  me?" 

The  speaker  was  a  girl  scarcely  past  childhood,, 
young,  beautiful,  good,  wealthy,  and  yet — desper 
ate,  as  not  only  her  words,  but  her  every  look,  tone, 
and  gesture  proved. 

Her  voice  was  low,  her  tone  steadied  by  a  power 
ful  self-control.  She  stood  there  with  a  pale  hor 
ror,  yet  fixed  resolution,  on  her  face;  as  one  might 
stand  on  the  deck  of  a  burning  ship,  wrought  up  to 
choose  death  between  fire  and  water,  ready  to  es 
cape  the  flames  by  plunging  into  the  sea. 

He  to  whom  she  spoke  was  a  poor  fisherman  on 
the  estate,  young,  strong,  healthy  and  handsome, 
with  the  good  looks  that  youth  and  health  give, 
but  bronzed  by  exposure,  roughened  by  toil  and 
rudely  clothed. 

3 

05G 


4  GLORIA 

The  scene  of  this  strange  interview  was  a  small, 
sandy  island  on  the  coast  of  Maryland.  The  time, 
an  over-clouded  and  blustering  morning  near  the 
end  of  January. 

He  had  been  hard  at  work  mending  his  boat, 
which  lay  bottom  upwards  on  the  beach,  when  she 
came  suddenly  upon  him. 

Then  he  stood  up,  took  off  his  old  tarpaulin  hat, 
and  respectfully  waited  her  orders. 

What  a  contrast  they  formed,  as  they  stood  there 
facing  each  other — she,  the  delicate,  patrician 
beauty,  wrapped  in  richest  furs  and  finest  velvets, 
yet  with  that  look  of  pale  horror  and  fixed  resolu 
tion  on  her  beautiful  face — he,  the  hardy  son  of  the 
soil,  bronzed  and  rugged,  clothed  in  a  rough  pea- 
jacket  and  loose  corduroy  trousers,  with  their  legs 
tucked  into  high,  coarse,  bull-hide  boots;  robust, 
erect,  cordial,  yet  with  a  look  of  unbounded  aston 
ishment  in  his  fine  dark  eyes. 

They  might  have  been  the  last  young  man  and 
maiden  left  in  the  world,  for  all  sign  of  human  life 
or  habitation  near  them,  as  they  stood  on  that  little 
sterile  isle — around  them  the  dark -gray  sea  rough 
ened  by  a  high  wind — behind  them  the  mainland  in 
its  wintry  aspect  of  skeleton  forests,  rising  from 
snow-clad  hills. 

"David  Lindsay,  will  you  marry  me?"  repeated 
the  girl,  seeing  that  he  had  not  answered  her  ques 
tion,  but  stood  before  her  dumfounded  with  amaze 
ment. 

"Miss  de  la  Vera!"  was  all  that  he  could  utter, 
even  now. 

"I  know  that  you  love  me,"  she  continued,  speak 
ing  now  with  more  vehemence,  and  looking  over 
her  shoulder,  from  moment  to  moment,  as  if,  even 


GLORIA  5 

in  that  remote,  sea-girt  isle,  she  dreaded  espionage, 
eavesdroppers,  discovery,  pursuit,  arrest.  "I  know 
that  you  love  me,  David!  It  is  that  which  gives 
me  courage  to  come  to  you  for  refuge  in  my  dread 
ful  desperation.  I  know  that  you  love  me,  for  I 
heard  you  say  so  once — when  you  saved  nay  life 
that  time  at  the  imminent  risk  of  your  own." 

"And,  oh,  is  it  possible  that  you  can  love  me?" 
breathed  the  young  man,  in  deep  tones  vibrating 
with  his  heart's  profound  emotions;  for  with  his 
whole  heart  he  had  loved  her,  deeply,  ardently,  hope 
lessly — with  his  whole  soul  he  had  worshiped  her, 
afar  off,  as  some  exalted  and  forever  unattainable 
good.  "Is  it  possible  that  you  can  love  me?" 

"No!"  she  answered,  hurriedly.  "I  do  not  love 
you!  That  is,  I  mean  I  love  everybody,  and  you 
more  than  others;  but  oh,  David,  feeling  sure  that 
you  love  me,  for  you  told  me  so  once " 

"I  was  mad  in  my  presumptuous  folly "  began 

the  youth. 

"Feeling  sure  that  you  love  me,  because  you  told 
me  so  once,  although  I  do  not  love  you  yet  more 
than  others,  I  will  be  your  wife  and  try  to  love  you 
more,  if  only  you  will  take  me  far  away  from  this 
place  at  once  and  forever,  David!  If  you  ever 
cared  for  me,  stop  to  ask  no  questions ;  but  do  as  I 
ask  you,  and  you  shall  have  my  hand  and  all  that  I 
possess!"  she  breathed  hardly,  looking  over  her 
shoulder  at  intervals,  with  a  nervous,  expectant, 
terrified  manner. 

"Miss  de  la  Vera,  it  is  you  who  are  mad  now !"  he 
replied,  in  a  tone  of  ineffable  sadness  and  longing, 
as  he  gazed  on  her  with  something  like  consterna 
tion. 


6  GLORIA 

And  well  lie  might !  The  situation  was  astound 
ing! 

Here  was  this  young  girl,  Gloria  de  la  Vera,  the 
daintiest  beauty,  the  wealthiest  heiress  in  the 
country,  proposing  to  marry  HIM,  the  poor  young 
fisherman  attached  to  the  estate!  It  was  wonder 
ful,  unprecedented,  incrediblel 

Why,  half  the  young  men  in  the  community  were 
mad  to  get  her.  A  smile  of  hers  would  have  brought 
the  best  of  them  to  her  feet. 

And  yet  she  came  to  give  her  hand  and  her  for 
tune  to  this  poor,  unlearned  young  fisherman ! 

"Nothing,  nothing  but  temporary  insanity  could 
have  betrayed  her  into  such  a  reckless  proposal, " 
said  the  young  fisherman  to  himself. 

Yet  the  girl  who  stood  there  before  him,  calm, 
pale,  and  steadfast  as  a  marble  statue,  was  not  in 
sane — no,  nor  immodest,  nor  unmaidenly,  however 
appearances  might  tell  against  her. 

Neither  had  she  done  any  wrong,  or  even  suffered 
any  wrong;  for  she  had  scarcely  a  fault  in  her  na 
ture  to  lead  her  into  any  evil,  and  never  an  enemy 
in  the  world  to  do  her  any  injury. 

Nor  had  she  quarreled  with  a  betrothed  lover  and 
sought  to  revenge  herself  upon  him  by  rushing  into 
this  low  marriage;  but  she  had  never  been  in  love 
and  never  been  engaged. 

Neither  did  she  hurry  towards  matrimony  as  a 
refuge  from  domestic  despotism,  for  she  was  the 
petted  darling  of  a  widowed  and  childless  uncle, 
who  had  been  a  father  to  her  orphanage;  and  she 
had  had  her  own  right  royal  will  and  way  all  her 
little  life. 

If  there  were  any  despotic  tyrant  at  old  Promon 
tory  Hall,  that  tyrant  was  the  dainty  little  beauty, 


GLORIA  T 

Gloria  de  la  Vera  herself,  and  if  there  were  any 
"down-trodden"  slave,  that  victim  was  the  re 
nowned  military  hero,  Colonel  Marcellus  de  Cres- 
pigney! 

Why,  then,  since  no  reasonable,  nor  even  unrea 
sonable  motive  could  be  found  for  the  mad  act, 
should  Gloria  de  la  Vera  wish  to  hurl  herself  head 
long  down  into  the  deep  perdition  of  a  low  and  love 
less  marriage? 

To  elucidate  the  mystery  we  must  narrate  the  in 
cidents  of  her  short  life. 

On  the  coast  of  Maryland  there  is  a  bleak  head  of 
land  thrown  out  into  the  sea,  and  united  to  the 
main  only  by  a  long  and  narrow  neck  of  rocks. 

If  this  weird  headland  had  been  a  little  loftier  it 
would  have  been  a  promontory — or  if  the  neck  of 
rocks  had  been  a  little  lower  it  would  have  been 
an  island. 

As  it  happened,  it  was  neither,  or  it  was  both; 
for,  at  low  tide,  when  the  neck  was  bare,  the  head 
was  a  promontory,  and  at  high  tide,  when  the  waves 
rolled  over  the  rocks,  it  was  an  island  entirely  sur 
rounded  by  the  sea. 

The  ground  arose  gradually  from  the  shore  to  the 
centre,  upon  the  highest  and  safest  part  of  which 
stood  a  large,  square,  heavy,  gray  stone  building, 
in  a  yard  inclosed  by  a  high  stone  wall. 

Lower  down  on  the  shore  was  another  wall, 
called  the  sea-wall. 

Beyond  this,  on  the  sand,  were  a  few  scattered 
fishing  huts  and  boat-sheds. 

There  was  but  little  vegetation  on  the  place,  and 
the  nearer  the  shore  the  sparser  the  growth.  On 
the  hill  near  the  house,  indeed,  there  were  a  few 
old  oaks,  said  to  have  been  planted  more  than  two 


8  GLORIA 

centuries  before  by  the  first  owners  of  the  soil  and 
builders  of  the  house.  There  were  also  a  few  gigan 
tic  horse-chestnuts  and  other  fine  forest  trees;  but 
all  these  had  been  transplanted  from  the  mainland 
ages  before.  There  was  nothing  of  native  growth 
on  the  promontory. 

Behind  the  house  was  an  old  garden,  where 
"made  soil"  was  so  rich  that  the  place  had  grown 
into  a  perfect  thicket  of  shrubs,  vines,  creepers, 
bushes,  and  all  sorts  of  hardy  old  plants,  flowers, 
and  fruit-trees. 

Behind  this  was  a  kitchen  garden,  where  a  few 
vegetables  were  with  difficulty  raised  for  the  use 
of  the  family,  and  bejond  were  fields  of  thinly  grow 
ing  grass  and  grain,  that  barely  afforded  sustenance 
for  the  cattle  and  sheep  on  the  premises. 

Altogether  this  half  sterile  promontory,  with  its 
square,  massive  gray  stone  mansion,  its  high  stone 
yard- wall,  its  strong  stone  sea-wall,  its  iron  gates, 
and  its  grim  aspect,  looked  more  like  a  fortress 
or  a  prison  than  the  hereditary  home  of  a  private 
family. 

The  locality  had  also  a  bad  reputation,  and  a 
worse  tradition,  besides  as  many  aliases  as  any  pro 
fessional  burglar. 

It  was  called  Pirates'  Point,  Buccaneers'  Bridge, 
and  La  Compte's  Landing. 

The  story,  or  the  history,  was  that  this  place  had 
been  the  frequent  resort  of  the  notorious  freebooter, 
La  Compte,  whose  nom-de-guerre  of  "Blackbeard" 
had  been,  in  the  old  colonial  days,  the  terror  of  the 
Chesapeake  and  its  tributaries. 

Vast  treasure,  it  was  said,  had  once  been  buried 


GLORIA  9 

here,  and  might  still  be  waiting  its  resurrection 
at  the  hands  of  some  fortunate  finder. 

However  that  might  have  been,  whatever  wealth 
of  gold,  silver,  or  precious  stones  might  have  lain 
hidden  for  ages  in  the  depths  of  that  sterile  ground, 
it  is  certain  that  the  last  proprietor  of  the  promon 
tory  was  poor  enough. 

He  was  Marcellus  de  Crespigney,  a  retired  officer 
of  the  army,  an  impoverished  gentleman. 

At  the  time  our  story  opens,  Colonel  Crespigney 
was  a  young  widower,  without  children  and  with 
out  family,  if  we  except  his  maiden  aunt,  Miss 
Agrippina  de  Crespigney,  and  his  youthful  ward, 
Gloria  de  la  Vera. 

His  history  may  be  very  briefly  summed  up.  He 
was  the  second  son  of  a  wealthy  Louisiana  planter, 
whose  estate  being  entailed  upon  the  eldest  male 
child,  left  little  or  nothing  to  younger  brothers 
or  sisters. 

Marcellus,  when  required  to  select  a  profession, 
being  of  a  grave  and  studious  disposition,  would 
have  preferred  divinity  or  medicine,  but  finally 
yielded  to  the  wish  of  his  father,  and  entered  West 
Point  Military  Academy  to  be  educated  for  the 
army. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  graduated  with 
honors,  and  then  went  to  spend  a  short  leave  with 
his  parents  previous  to  joining  his  regiment. 

He  met  them  by  appointment  at  Saratoga,  which 
was  at  that  time  the  headquarters  and  great  sum 
mer  resort  of  Southern  families,  flying  from  the 
fierce  heat  and  fatal  fevers  of  their  native  districts 
to  the  cool  breezes  and  healing  waters  of  the  North. 

And  here,  Marcellus,  or,  as  he  was  most  fre 
quently  called,  Marcel  de  Crespigney,  met  the  great 


10  GLORIA 

misfortune  of  liis  life,  for  here  he  first  saw  the  lady 
who  was  destined  to  be  his  wife. 

Marcel  de  Crespigney  was  one  of  the  handsomest 
men  of  his  time.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  was 
as  beautiful  as  Apollo.  His  form  was  of  medium 
size  and  fair  proportions,  his  head  stately  and  well 
set,  his  features  Romanesque  in  their  regularity 
and  delicacy  of  outline;  his  hair  and  beard  were 
dark  brown,  and  closely  curled ;  his  eyes  dark  hazel, 
with  a  steady,  thoughtful,  sympathetic  gaze  that 
had  the  effect  of  mesmerizing  any  one  upon  whom 
it  fell. 

Such  beauty  is  too  often  an  evil  and  a  cause  of 
weakness  in  man.  It  frequently  inspires  and 
nourishes  vanity,  and  saps  and  blights  true  man 
liness. 

Such,  however,  was  not  its  effect  upon  Marcel  de 
Crespigney. 

He  had  his  fatal  weakness,  as  you  will  presently 
discover;  but  that  weakness  did  not  take  its  root 
in  self-love — quite  the  contrary. 

If  he  had  possessed  vanity,  however,  he  would 
have  found  a  surfeit  of  food  for  it. 

Wherever  he  appeared,  he  was  noticed  as  the 
handsomest  man  in  the  company,  and  many  were 
the  light-headed  and  soft-hearted  girls  who  fell 
more  or  less  in  love  with  him. 

At  Saratoga,  in  the  immediate  circle  of  his 
mother  and  sisters,  he  met  a  party  of  West  Indians 
—the  Count  Anton  i  a  de  la  Vera,  an  aged  Portu 
guese  grandee,  his  young  wife,  the  Countess 
Eleanor,  her  sister,  Eusebie  La  Compte,  and  their 
three-year-old  daughter,  named  after  the  good 
Queen  of  Portugal,  Maria  da  Gloria;  but  for  the 
radiant  beauty  of  her  fair  complexion,  golden  hair, 


GLORIA  11 

and  sapphire  eyes,  which  she  inherited  from  her 
mother,  they  called  her  Gloria  only. 

Of  all  the  people  present,  this  child  took  suddenly 
and  solely  to  the  young  lieutenant.  She  would 
leave  father,  mother,  auntie  or  nurse,  to  leap  into 
the  arms  of  her  "Own  Marcel,"  as  she  soon  learned 
to  call  him.  It  was  wonderful;  and  superficial 
people  said  it  was  his  gay  uniform  that  attracted 
the  child — but  then  the  child  looked  only  at  his 
eyes! 

But  there  was  another  of  the  West  Indian  party 
who  found  great  pleasure  in  the  presence  of  Marcel 
de  Crespigney.  This  was  Miss  Eusebie  La  Compte, 
the  sister  of  the  Senora  Eleanor. 

They,  the  sisters,  were  not  West  Indians,  but 
Marylanders,  orphan  daughters  and  co-heiresses  of 
old  George  La  Compte,  of  La  Compte's  Landing  and 
Pirates'  Promontory. 

In  the  division  of  the  estate  after  the  death  of 
their  parents,  the  most  valuable  portion,  La 
Compte's  Landing,  had  been  given  to  the  eldest 
daughter,  Eleanor,  and  the  least  desirable,  Promon 
tory  Hall,  to  the  youngest,  Eusebie. 

It  was  while  the  sisters  were  residing  at  the 
house  of  their  guardian,  an  eminent  lawyer  of 
Washington  city,  that  they  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  Count  de  la  Vera,  then  ambassador  from 
Portugal.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  attracted  by  the 
radiant  blonde  beauty  of  the  elder  sister,  he  had 
proposed  for  her  hand. 

Eleanor,  whose  heart  was  free,  and  whose  fancy 
was  fascinated  by  the  prospect  of  rank,  wealth  and 
position,  promptly  accepted  the  offer,  and  in  due 
time  became  Madame  de  la  Yera. 


12  GLORIA 

A  brilliant  season  in  Washington  followed  their 
marriage,  then  a  tour  of  the  fashionable  watering- 
places. 

Finally,  when  the  ambassador  was  recalled,  he 
went  to  Lisbon  to  resign  his  portfolio,  and  then 
he  came  back  and  settled  down  on  his  West  Indian 
estates. 

But  not  for  long. 

Troubles  broke  out.    Possessions  were  insecure. 

Count  de  la  Vera  sold  off  his  property  and  came 
to  Maryland,  the  native  State  of  his  beautiful  wife, 
where  he  invested  largely  in  land. 

By  this  time  the  Senora  Eleanor's  health  began 
to  fail.  Then  her  doling  husband  sent  for  her  sister 
to  travel  with  her,  and  to  help  to  relieve  her  of  the 
care  of  their  infant  daughter,  Gloria. 

They  all  went  to  Saratoga  together,  and  thus  it 
happened  that  we  found  them  in  the  company  of 
Madame  de  Crespigney  and  her  daughters. 

Eusebie  La  Compte,  the  heiress  of  the  bleak  prom 
ontory,  had  not  the  radiant  beauty  of  her  sister, 
whose  brilliant  complexion,  shining  golden  hair 
and  sparkling  blue  eyes  had  been  inherited  by  her 
daughter;  no,  the  pale  face,  sandy  locks  and  gray 
eyes  of  Eusebie  formed  but  a  tame  copy  of  the 
brighter  picture. 

Yet  Eusebie  could  not  be  called  "plain,"  and  far 
less  "ugly."  Her  form  seemed  cast  in  the  same 
mold  as  that  of  her  beautiful  elder  sister,  only  it 
was  thinner.  Her  profile  had  the  same  classic  facial 
angle,  but  it  was  sharper.  Her  complexion  was 
quite  as  fair,  only  it  was  paler.  Her  hair  was  of 
the  same  color,  only  it  was  duller.  Her  eyes  were 
of  the  same  hue,  but  they  were  dimmer. 


GLORIA  13 

If  Eusebie  had  been  healthy  and  happy,  she 
would  have  been  as  beautiful  and  brilliant  as  her 
sister;  or  if  she  had  been  smitten,  as  Eleanor  had, 
by  hectic  fever  only,  which  gives  color  to  the  cheeks 
and  light  to  the  eye.  But  to  be  afflicted  with 
malaria,  which  dulls  the  complexion  and  dims  the 
eyes,  is  quite  another  thing. 

Nevertheless,  there  were  times  when  Eusebie  was 
almost  beautiful.  It  was  when  any  strong  emotion 
flushed  her  cheeks  and  fired  her  eyes. 

The  West  Indian  party  did  not  go  much  into 
society.  The  health  of  Seuora  Eleanor  forbade 
their  doing  so.  The  only  company  they  saw  was 
our  party  from  Louisiana. 

The  illness  of  the  mother  and  the  negligence  of 
the  nurse,  threw  the  little  Gloria  very  much  upon 
the  care  of  Eusebie,  who  was  almost  always  to  be 
found  in  Madame  de  Crespigney's  circle. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Eusebie  and  Marcel  were 
brought  daily  together,  and  united  by  their  common 
interest  in  the  beautiful  child,  Gloria. 

So  Eusebie,  the  pale,  agueish  girl,  fell  in  love 
with  the  handsome  young  Marcel — fell  in  love  with 
him,  not  after  the  manner  of  the  soft-hearted  girl, 
who  sighed  in  secret  and  slipped  out  of  sight,  but 
after  the  manner  of  the  woman  who  says  to  herself, 
"Love  or  death/'  and  thinks  towrards  her  victim, 
"Your  love  or  your  life!" 

Marcel  de  Crespigney  being  of  a  tender,  affec 
tionate,  sympathetic  nature,  had  been  more  or  less 
in  love  all  the  days  of  his  youth.  In  earliest  in 
fancy  he  was  ardently  in  love  with  his  nurse.  At 
five  years  old  he  was  passionately  enamored  of  his 
nursery  governess,  a  bright  young  Yankee  girl. 


14  GLORIA 

And  when  she  married  the  Methodist  minister, 
Marcel  wept  tears  of  agony.  His  Sunday-school 
teacher,  an  amiable  old  maid,  was  his  next  flame. 
When  she  died  of  yellow  fever  he  put  crape  on  his 
little  cap  and  flowers  on  her  grave. 

Then  followed,  as  queens  of  his  soul — his  sisters' 
music  mistress,  his  mother's  seamstress,  and  the 
overseer's  sister-in-law.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he 
actually  offered  marriage  to  the  doctor's  widow,  a 
genial,  soft-eyed,  warm-hearted  matron  of  thirty- 
five,  who,  in  her  wisdom  and  goodness,  refrained 
from  wounding  his  affection  by  contempt,  but 
gravely  and  kindly  assured  him  that,  though  she 
declined  to  be  engaged  then,  yet  she  would  wait 
for  him,  and  if  he  should  be  in  the  same  mind  five 
years  from  that  time,  she  would  listen  to  him. 

The  boy  left  her,  in  ecstasies  of  hope  and  hap 
piness,  after  vows  of  unchanging,  eternal  fidelity. 

But  he  did  not  remain  in  the  same  mind,  which 
was  fortunate,  as  the  doctor's  widow  also  died,  and 
— of  yellow  fever. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen,  when  the  young  man  en 
tered  West  Point,  as  we  have  said,  he  would  have 
speedily  contracted  a  pure,  platonic  love  for  the 
colonel's  \vife,  a  handsome  and  intellectual  lady  of 
middle  age,  only  a  high  sense  of  honor  warned  him 
of  the  danger  of  such  moral  quicksands. 

After  this  the  boy  devoted  himself  to  his  military 
studies,  and  the  sentiment  of  spoonyism  soon  gave 
place  to  the  sentiment  of  heroism. 

Yes,  Marcel  de  Crespigney  had  been  in  love  nearly 
all  his  life;  but  he  was  neither  vain  enough  nor 
observant  enough  to  perceive  the  preference  be 
stowed  on  him  by  his  young  lady  friends;  nor  would 
he  ever  have  known  the  infatuation  of  Eusebie  La 


GLORIA  15 

Compte,  had  not  his  mother  discovered  and  revealed 
it  to  him. 

In  the  eyes  of  Madame  de  Crespigney,  the  pale 
Eusebie  seemed  a  very  eligible  match  for  her  por 
tionless  son.  Report  had  exaggerated  the  riches  of 
the  co-heiresses.  The  elder  sister  had  married  a  Por 
tuguese  grandee.  Altogether  the  connection  seemed 
a  good  one  in  a  social  and  financial  point  of  view. 

Of  course,  Madame  de  Crespigney  did  not  set  the 
matter  before  her  son  in  that  light.  She  knew  Mar 
cel  too  well.  She  adroitly  directed  his  attention 
to  the  delicate  girl,  and  enlisted  his  sympathies  for 
her,  so  that  he  soon  perceived  how  the  pale  cheeks 
would  flush,  and  the  dim  eyes  fire,  and  the  whole 
plain  face  grow  radiant  and  beautiful  in  the  love- 
light  of  his  presence.  His  heart  was  free,  and  so 
he  became  interested  in  her.  He  thought  she  was 
the  first  who  had  ever  loved  him,  and  so  he  grew  to 
believe  that  he  loved  her. 

At  least  he  proposed  to  her  and  was  accepted. 

As  the  young  officer  had  but  a  month's  leave  be 
fore  joining  his  regiment,  that  was  under  orders 
to  march  for  Mexico  to  join  General  Scott's  army 
on  the  first  of  September,  and  as  the  bride-elect 
decided  to  accompany  her  intended  husband,  "even 
to  the  battlefield,"  the  engagement  was  a  short  one. 
The  wedding  was  hurried. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  August  the 
young  couple  were  quietly  married  in  the  nearest 
church,  and  immediately  after  the  ceremony  they 
set  out  for  Washington,  where  Lieutenant  de  Cres 
pigney  joined  his  regiment,  which  was  on  the  eve 
of  departure  for  the  seat  of  war. 

I  do  not  mean  here  to  tell  over  again,  even  the 


16  GLORIA 

least  part,  the  oft-repeated  story  of  the  Mexican 
War,  but  only  to  allude  in  the  briefest  manner  to 
Marcel  de  Crespigney's  share  in  it.  He  went  to 
Mexico,  accompanied  by  his  bride,  who  was  with 
him  wherever  duty  called. 

She  spent  the  first  three  years  of  her  married  life 
in  camps,  on  battle-fields,  and  in  hospitals,  and  so 
did  her  woman's  share  of  the  work. 

He  behaved  gallantly  from  first  to  last,  as  is  best 
shown  by  his  military  record.  For,  having  entered 
the  service  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  with  the 
rank  of  second  lieutenant  of  cavalry,  he  left  it  at 
the  close  with  that  of  colonel  and  brevet  brigadier- 
general. 

At  the  earliest  solicitation  of  his  wife,  he  then 
resigned  his  commission  and  retired  with  her  to 
private  life,  on  her  estate  at  Pirates'  Promontory, 
the  principal  wealth  of  which  consisted  in  its  great 
fisheries. 

No  children  had  come  to  them  to  crown  their 
union,  and  this  want  had  been  a  source  of  disap 
pointment  to  the  husband  and  humiliation  to  the 
wife,  that  even  threatened  in  the  course  of  time  to 
estrange  them  from  each  other. 

They  must  have  continued  to  live  a  very  lonely 
life  on  their  remote  estate — "the  world  forgetting, 
by  the  world  forgot" — but  for  circumstances  that 
occurred  in  the  first  year  of  their  residence  at  the 
Promontory. 

These  were  the  deaths  of  the  aged  Count  de  la 
Vera  and  his  fragile  young  wife,  who  passed  away 
within  a  few  days  of  each  other,  leaving  their 
orphan  child,  Maria  de  Gloria,  to  the  care  of  her 
maternal  aunt  and  uncle,  who  gladly  received  her. 


GLORIA  IT 

CHAPTER  II 

MARIA  GLORIA  DE  LA  VESA 

A  willful  elf,  an  uncle's  child, 
And  half  a  pet  and  half  a  pest, 

By  turns  angelic,  wicked,  wild, 
Made  chaos  of  the  household  nest. 

ANON. 

GLORIA  was  seven  years  old  when  she  came  to 
live  with  her  uncle  and  aunt.  She  was  too  young 
and  too  bright  to  realize  the  loss  she  had  sustained 
in  the  death  of  her  parents,  or  to  grieve  long  after 
them.  And  besides — was  it  a  new  affection,  or  was 
it  a  reminiscence  of  the  old  one?  She  soon  became 
devotedly  attached  to  her  uncle. 

It  was  a  grim  home  to  which  the  radiant  child 
had  been  brought;  but  nothing  could  dim  the 
brightness  of  her  spirit  or  depress  the  gladness  of 
her  heart — not  old  Promontory  Hall  with  its  gray, 
massive,  prison-like  structure,  its  high  stone  walls, 
and  its  dreary  sea  view,  drearier  than  usual  in  the 
dull  December  days  in  which  Gloria  looked  upon  it 
— not  even  the  deadening  coldness  that  was  creep 
ing  like  a  blighting  frost  between  the  husband  and 
the  wife — a  coldness  that  the  warm-hearted  child 
felt  rather  than  understood. 

This  condition,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  the 
fault  of  Eusebie  rather  than  Marcel.  It  grew  out 
of  the  jealousy  and  suspicion  that  had  their  root 
in  her  inordinate  and  exacting  affection  for  him. 

Her  self -tormenting  spirit  whispered  that  he  had 
never  really  loved  her,  but  had  married  her  out  of 


18  GLORIA 

compassion,  or:  worse  still,  that  he  had  never  even 
cared  for  her  in  any  manner,  but  had  taken  her  for 
her  little  fortune  alone.  She  saw  that,  as  the  years 
passed  away,  and  hope  of  a  family  died  out,  he  was 
disappointed  in  the  continued  absence  of  children, 
and  she  persuaded  herself  that  he  secretly  hated 
and  despised  her  for  not  giving  them  to  him. 

All  this  wore  out  her  health  and  spirits. 

And  so  she  grew  more  and  more  irritable  and 
petulant,  often  repelling  his  best-meant  efforts  to 
comfort  and  cheer  her — telling  him  she  wanted 
none  of  his  capricious  sympathy,  his  hypocritical 
tenderness;  she  could  live  without  either. 

All  this  he  bore  with  the  greater  patience  because 
he  knew  it  could  not  last  long — because  he  saw  the 
fiery  soul  was  burning  out  the  fragile  body,  and 
because  he  felt  that  there  was  a  grain  of  truth  in 
the  stack  of  falsehood.  It  was  this — that  he  had 
married  her  for  pity,  or  for  such  love  as  pity 
inspires. 

The  coming  of  Gloria  into  this  house  of  discord 
had  been  as  the  advent  of  an  angel  in  purgatory. 
Her  very  presence  had  a  mediating,  reconciling 
power. 

Yet  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  Gloria  was  a 
real  angel,  or  that  her  coming  brought  perfect  peace 
to  the  household.  Far  from  this.  Gloria  had  a 
fiery  little  spirit  of  her  own  that  sometimes  flamed 
out  at  very  inconvenient  times  and  seasons,  and 
the  most  she  did  towards  restoring  harmony  was 
to  restrain  by  her  bright  presence  the  expression 
of  harsh  feelings,  and  to  prevent  the  estrangement 
breaking  out  into  open  warfare. 

While  they  would  be  sitting  silent  and  sullen,  at 
the  same  fireside,  in  the  long  back  parlor  that 


GLORIA  19 

looked  out  upon  the  leaden  sky  and  sea  of  these 
dull  December  days,  he  would  be  apparently  ab 
sorbed  in  the  perusal  of  some  favorite  old  classic 
author,  she  would  be  engaged  in  knitting,  the  glit 
tering,  fine,  long  needles  glancing  in  and  out  be 
tween  her  delicate  white  fingers,  in  round  after 
round  of  stitches — for  she  was  a  great  knitter  of 
lamb'S-wool  hose — the  child  would  be  sitting  on  the 
carpet  somewhere  near,  earnestly  employed  in 
dressing  her  doll,  drawing  on  her  slate,  or  cutting 
figures  out  of  paper — but  always  singing  some  little 
song  to  herself,  filling  the  room  with  harmony. 

How  could  the  sullen  couple  break  into  open  war 
fare  in  her  presence? 

Yet  sometimes  they  did  so.  A  dispute  would 
arise  out  of  that  dull  silence,  as  a  breeze  would 
spring  over  the  gray  sea,  and  blow  into  storm  in 
one  case  as  in  the  other. 

The  gust  always  arose  from  Eusebie's  quarter. 
And  Marcel  always  got  the  worst  of  it. 

Often  little  Gloria  would  see  him  grieved, 
humiliated,  yet  silent  and  patient,  under  his  wife's 
false  accusations  and  bitter  reproaches. 

Then  her  soul  would  be  filled  with  sympathy,  her 
song  would  cease,  her  playthings  drop,  and  she 
would  get  up  and  take  her  little  stool  and  go  and 
sit  down  by  his  side  and  slip  her  small  hand  into 
his  and  lay  her  bright  head  on  his  knee. 

This  always  quelled  the  rising  storm.  It  pre 
vented  Marcel  from  retorting,  however  much  ex 
asperated  he  might  be,  and  it  eventually  silenced 
Eusebie,  for  no  one  can  keep  up  a  quarrel  alone. 

Gloria's  interference  did  not  always  stop  at  sym 
pathy  for  Marcel.  It  sometimes,  indeed,  broke  out 
into  righteous  indignation  against  Eusebie. 


20  GLORIA 

On  one  occasion,  she  had  heard  her  unhappy  aunt 
taunt  him  with  his  want  of  fortune  and  charge 
him  with  mercenary  motives  in  marrying  her. 
She  had  seen  her  uncle's  dark  cheek  flame,  and  had 
noticed  how  hard  it  was  for  him  to  keep  his  temper ; 
and  she  had  left  her  play  and  gone  and  sat  down 
by  his  side,  and  put  her  little  arms  around  his  knee 
and  laid  her  shining  head  upon  it. 

That  had  soothed  and  silenced  him.  He  could  not 
give  way  to  his  evil  spirit  in  the  presence  of  the 
child. 

But,  mind,  when  at  length  he  arose  and  left  the 
parlor,  and  Gloria  found  herself  alone  with  her 
aunt,  she  rebuked  that  passionate  woman  fear 
lessly. 

"You  treat  my  uncle  worse  than  you  would  dare 
to  treat  any  negro  slave  on  the  promontory,"  she 
exclaimed,  in  angry  tears. 

"He  is  not  your  uncle,"  was  all  the  lady  said  in 
reply. 

"He  is  your  husband,  then !  And  you  treat  him 
worse  than  you  would  dare  to  treat  any  one  else 
in  the  world,  just  because  he  is  a  gentleman  and 
cannot  retort  upon  you.  You  just  dare  to  talk  to 
old  'Phia  as  you  talk  to  him,  and  she  would  give 
you  such  a  tongue-lashing  as  you  would  not  get 
over  in  a  month." 

"If  you  do  not  cease  your  impertinence  at  once, 
Miss,  I  will  give  you  such  a  whip-lashing  as  you 
won't  get  over  in  six !"  exclaimed  the  angry  woman. 

"No  you  will  not,  auntie !  If  you  were  to  lay  a 
whip  upon  me,  only  once,  you  would  repent  it  all 
your  life,  and  you  would  never  have  a  chance  to 
do  it  again.  You  are  my  auntie;  but  my  uncle  is 
my  guardian,  and  he  would  lead  me  out  of  this 


GLORIA  21 

house  and  we  would  never  return  to  it.  You  know 
that!" 

"Oh,  Heaven !  It  is  too  true,  for  he  loves  me  not 
at  all !"  breathed  the  poor  woman,  losing  all  self- 
command,  and  utterly  breaking  down  in  humilia 
tion. 

In  a  moment  the  child  was  at  her  side — at  her 
feet. 

"Oh,  auntie,  poor  auntie,  don't  cry !  I  have  been 
naughty,  very  naughty!  And  I  am  sorry,  very 
sorry !  Indeed  you  may  strike  me  now,  if  you  want 
to,  for  I  do  deserve  it  now !"  she  said,  trying  with 
all  her  heart  to  soothe  the  weeping  woman. 

But  Eusebie  clasped  the  child  to  her  bosom  and 
burst  into  a  passion  of  sobs  and  tears. 

"I  love  you,  auntie,  dear.  I  do  love  you,  and  I  am 
so  sorry  I  was  so  naughty,"  said  the  child,  clasping 
the  unhappy  creature  around  the  neck  and  lavish 
ing  caresses  on  her. 

But  Eusebie  only  sobbed  the  harder  for  all  this. 

"And  uncle  loves  you,  auntie,  dear,  indeed  he 
does,  although  you  do  always  tell  him  that  he 
doesn't  care  for  you.  I  know  he  does,  for  when  you 
are" — the  child  was  about  to  say  "cross,"  but 
checked  herself  in  time,  and  continued — "when  you 
are  unhappy  he  looks  at  you  so  pitifully." 

"Oh,  Gloria,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it, 
and  I  don't  want  his  pity.  I  am  not  a  dog  or  a 
beggar,"  exclaimed  Eusebie,  bitterly,  as  she  put  her 
niece  from  her  lap  and  hurried  from  the  parlor  to 
her  own  room,  to  give  unrestrained  way  to  her 
grief. 

This  heart-sick  and  brain-sick  poor  woman  was 
the  plague  and  curse  of  the  household,  and  such 
scenes  as  these  were  of  frequent  occurrence. 


22  GLORIA 

Little  Gloria  acted  always  as  a  peacemaker,  and 
always  successfully;  only  once  in  a  long  time  did 
her  sense  of  justice  rouse  her  indignation  to  the 
height  of  upbraiding  her  "auntie,"  and  then  her 
quick  bursts  of  temper  were  followed,  by  as  quick 
repentance  and  reparation.  She  was  very  im 
pulsive — 

"A  being  of  sudden  smiles  and  tears." 

This  swrift  impulsiveness,  with  its  sudden  action 
and  reaction,  was  the  keynote  to  her  whole  char 
acter,  the  "kismet"  of  her  life. 

As  yet  she  was  the  peacemaker  of  the  house,  and 
all  within  it  felt  that  this  had  been  her  mission 
to  the  household.  Even  the  old  family  servants 
put  their  heads  together  confidentially,  or  shook 
them  wisely,  while  they  whispered : 

"Whatever  de  trouble  is  atween  de  two,  marster 
and  mist'ess  done  been  parted  long  a  merry  ago  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  little  Glo>." 

Indeed,  this  Promontory  Hall,  with  its  high,  en 
closing  walls,  and  the  gray  sea  rolling  around  it, 
and  the  estranged,  unhappy  pair  within  it,  must 
have  been  a  very  dull,  dreary  and  depressing  home 
for  any  child  who  had  not,  like  Gloria,  an  ever 
springing  fountain  of  gladness  in  her  own  soul. 

As  soon  as  the  long  winter  was  over,  and  the  sun 
shone  warm  and  bright,  and  the  earth  grew  green 
and  the  sea,  blue,  Gloria  was  out  and  abroad,  with 
the  earliest  birds  and  flowers,  as  bright  as  the 
brightest,  and  as  glad  as  the  gladdest. 

With  the  revival  of  all  nature  there  was  a  great 
revival  of  business  also  in  the  fisheries  appertain 
ing  to  the  Promontory  and  its  neighboring  isles. 


GLORIA  23 

The  place  that  was  so  solitary  all  the  winter  was 
now  all  alive  with  fishermen,  whose  huts  and  tents 
and  sheds  dotted  all  the  little  islands  within  sight 
from  the  promontory.  No  fishermen  except  those 
in  the  service  of  the  family  were  allowed  to  haul  the 
seines,  or  even  cast  a  net  from  the  home  beach. 

Among  the  fishermen  attached  to  the  service  of 
the  family  was  a  young  lad  of  about  twelve  years 
old.  His  parents  had  passed  away,  leaving  him  in 
the  care  of  his  grandmother,  who  lived  in  a  tiny, 
sandy  islet  that  stood  alone,  half  a  mile  east  of  the 
promontory. 

Who  had  been  the  original  owner  of  the  little 
sandhill  no  one  ever  knew;  for  the  property  was 
not  of  sufficient  value  to  stimulate  inquiries;  and, 
besides,  it  had  been  for  ages  past  occupied  by  a 
family  of  squatters,  the  present  representatives  of 
whom  were  David  Lindsay  and  his  grandmother. 

It  was  on  a  brilliant  May  morning  that  the  little 
Gloria,  in  her  wanderings  about  the  promontory, 
came  to  a  broken  part  of  the  old  sea-wall,  and,  insti 
gated  by  curiosity,  clambered  over  the  stones  and 
looked  out  upon  a  long  stretch  of  sands  upon  which 
sheds,  huts,  and  stranded  boats  were  scattered 
among  nets,  seines,  sea-weed  and  driftwood. 

The  child,  standing  in  the  breach  of  the  wall, 
paused  to  gaze  with  interest  on  the  rude  scene  that 
was  so  entirely  new  to  her. 

Then  she  saw  a  boy  seated  amid  a  drift  of  nets 
and  seines,  with  a  reel  of  coarse  twine  and  a  large 
wooden  needle  in  his  hand,  busy  with  some  work 
that  quite  absorbed  his  attention ;  for  he  neither 
saw  nor  heard  the  approach  of  the  little  girl. 

She,  on  her  part,  stood  still  and  watched  him 
with  surprise  and  delight 


24  GLORIA 

The  solitary  child  had  not  seen  another  child  of 
any  sort,  white  or  black,  girl  or  boy,  for  more  than 
a  year.  She  had  lived  only  with  grown-up  people, 
and  very  "scroobious"  and  depressing  grown-up  peo 
ple  at  that.  Now  her  heart  leaped  for  joy  at  the 
sight  of  an  angel  from  her  own  heaven — another 
child! 

What  if  he  was  a  poor  little  lad,  with  a  torn 
straw  hat  set  on  his  tangled  black  curls,  a  sunburned 
face,  a  patched  coat,  trowsers  rolled  up  to  his  knees, 
and  below  them  naked  legs  and  feet?  He  was  an 
other  child — an  angel  from  her  own  heaven!  He 
had  come  with  the  sun  and  the  spring,  with  the 
birds  and  the  flowers.  Here  was  the  crowning  joy 
of  the  season  indeed. 

He  would  be  her  playmate.  He  would  not  rail 
and  weep  like  Eusebie,  nor  sigh  and  groan  like  Mar 
cel.  He  would  be  glad  like  herself. 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation  she  ran  down  to 
him. 

Children,  when  left  to  their  own  intuition,  are  the 
most  simple  and  natural  democrats  and  repub 
licans.  They  care  nothing  and  know  nothing  of 
caste.  When  misled  by  others,  they  may  become 
the  most  repulsive  little  aristocrats  alive. 

She  stood  before  him  breathless,  smiling. 

As  for  the  boy,  he  looked  up  at  her  in  pleased  sur 
prise  at  the  brightest  vision  that  had  ever  glad 
dened  his  eyes. 

"Little  boy !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  kindly 
greeting. 

"Yes,  little  girl,"  he  answered,  as  he  arose,  drop 
ping  his  nets  and  taking  off  his  torn  hat. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you !"  she  exclaimed,  smiling. 

"So  am  I,  you.    Will  you  sit  down  on  the  boat? 


GLORIA  25 

It  is  quite  dry,"  lie  said,  as  he  pointed  to  the  up 
turned  skiff  upon  which  he  himself  had  been  seated. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  thank  you.  I  would  like  to  sit  down 
because  I  have  been  walking  all  over  the  promon 
tory  and  I  am  so  tired,"  she  said,  as  she  seated  her 
self. 

"Put  your  feet  on  this  stone,  the  sands  are  damp," 
said  the  lad,  as  he  placed  a  flat  piece  of  rock  near 
her. 

"Yes ;  I  thank  you.  And  you  sit  down,  too.  Don't 
you  stand,"  she  continued.  He  obeyed  the  little 
lady,  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  I  found  you!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  dancing  eyes. 

"So  am  I  you ;  very  glad,"  he  answered,  quietly. 

"Have  you  got  anybody  to  play  with?"  was  her 
next  question. 

"No,"  he  replied. 

"No  more  have  I.  What  is  your  name,  little  boy?" 

"Dave." 

"Dave?    That  means  David,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,  David ;  but  everybody  calls  me  Dave." 

"Well,  what  else  is  your  name  besides  David?" 

"Lindsay — David  Lindsay." 

"Oh !    Uncle  reads  to  us  about  one — 

"  'Sir  David  Lyndsay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  Lion,  King  at  Arms.' 

Was  he  any  kin  to  you?" 

"No,  there  ain't  no  kings  nor  lions  about  here," 
replied  the  lad,  laughing. 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  think  there  was  any  chil 
dren  or  playmates  about  here;  but  after  finding  you 
I  should  not  wonder  if  I  found  kings  and  lions  and 
— and  dwarfs  and  fairies." 


26  GLORIA 

"I  never  saw  any  about  here,"  said  the  lad,  de 
cidedly. 

"David  Lindsay,  don't  you  want  to  know  what 
my  name  is?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Well,  then,  why  don't  you  ask  me?" 

"Because — I  don't  know — I  didn't  like  to." 

"Well,  my  name  is  Maria  da  Gloria  de  la  Vera !" 

"Oh !  what  a  long  name !" 

"Yes,  but  it  is  a  beautiful  name,  with  a  beautiful 
meaning." 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

"I  believe,  but  I  don't  quite  know,  that  it  means 
the  Glory  of  the  Truth,  or  something  like  that." 

"It  is  too  long." 

"Yes,  it  is  long  as  it  is  spelt  and  written ;  but  not 
as  it  is  pronounced,  for  it  is  pronounced  Davero — 
Gloria  Davero — and  the  colored  folks  have  got  it 
down  to  little  Glo'." 

"Oh,  I  like  that !  Little  Glo' !"  said  the  lad,  with 
animation. 

"Do  you?  I  am  so  glad!  What  does  your  name 
mean,  David  Lindsay?" 

"I'm  blest  if  I  know  wrhat  it  means,  if  it  means 
anything  at  all." 

"But  it  must  mean  something,  David  Lindsay. 
All  names  do." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  ask  my  grandmother." 

"Yes,  do.    Do  you  like  me,  David  Lindsay?" 

"Oh !  yes,  indeed  I  do." 

"So  do  I  you,  ever  so  much.  What  is  that  you 
are  doing  with  that  long  wooden  needle  and  big 
ball  of  cord,  David  Lindsay?" 

"I  am  mending  nets." 


GLORIA  27 

"Oh,  how  curious  it  is.  Will  you  show  me  how  to 
do  it,  David  Lindsay?  Is  it  hard  to  do?" 

"No,  it  is  easy.  I  will  be  glad  to  show  you,"  said 
the  boy,  who  then  instructed  her  in  the  simple  stitch 
by  which  the  nets  were  made. 

"What  fun !"  exclaimed  the  child,  as  her  slender 
little  fingers  plied  the  wooden  needle  in  and  out 
among  the  meshes.  "Who  taught  you  to  do  this, 
David  Lindsay?" 

"I "    The  boy  hesitated  and  looked  puzzled, 

and  then  said :  "I  don't  know.  I  netted  nets  ever 
since  I  could  remember,  and  before,  too,  I  reckon, 
but  not  so  large  nets  as  these.  I  netted  minnow 
nets  first,  I  remember  that.  I  s'pose  father  must 
ha'  taught  me." 

"Have  you  got  a  father  and  mother,  David  Lind 
say?" 

"Yes,  in  Heaven,"  replied  the  lad,  lifting  his 
broken  hat  and  bending  his  head. 

"So  have  I — in  Heaven.  Have  you  got  any  broth 
ers  and  sisters,  David  Lindsay?" 

"No,  not  one." 

"No  more  have  I.    Have  you  got  any  playmates?" 

"No;  never  had  any." 

"No  more  have  I.  But  now  I  have  you,  and  you 
have  me,  and  we  will  be  playmates,  won't  we?" 

"Yes,  indeed !" 

"How  old  are  you,  David  Lindsay?" 

"I  am  almost  twelve;  I  shall  be  twelve  next 
Fourth  of  July." 

"Oh,  what  a  splendid  birthday!  I  shall  be  eight 
the  first  of  June!" 

"June  is  a  nice  month,  too.  The  roses  are  all 
out,"  said  the  boy. 


28  GLORIA 

The  little  girl  fell  into  thought  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  she  said : 

"What  made  you  lift  your  hat  and  bend  your 
head  when  you  said  'Heaven/  David  Lindsay?" 

"Grandmother  taught  me." 

"  'Grandmother !'  Yes,  you  said  grandmother  be 
fore." 

"She  is  father's  mother.  Father  was  drowned  in 
a  squall  while  out  fishing  when  I  was  seven  years 
old.  That  was  in  the  spring ;  mother  died  of  pleu 
risy  the  next  winter;  a  bitter,  bitter  winter,  when 
the  snow  lay  two  or  three  feet  deep  on  the  ground 
and  drifted  around  our  little  house,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  bring  us  wood  from  the  main  but  grand 
mother  and  me,  and  we  had  to  go  for  it  in  the  boat 
and  couldn't  bring  but  a  little  at  a  time;  and  we 
had  no  doctor  and  that  was  the  way  poor  mother 
died." 

Gloria's  bright  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She 
slipped  her  hand  in  that  of  the  boy  and  said : 

"But  maybe  she  would  have  died  all  the  same. 
My  mother  had  everything  in  the  world,  and  she 
died.  But  you  know  neither  of  them  really  died; 
they  went  to  heaven." 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Now,  ain't  grown  people  queer,  David  Lindsay?" 

"How?" 

"The  way  they  talk.  They  will  say  one  minute  a 
man  has  died  and  gone  to  heaven,  and  the  next  min 
ute  they  will  say  he  is  buried  in  such  a  church-yard. 
Now,  how  can  he  be  in  heaven  and  in  the  ground  at 
the  same  time?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  is  a  great  mystery,"  said  the 
boy,  gravely. 

"I  don't  like  mysteries.     I  don't.     They  always 


GLORIA  29 

make  me  feel  as  if  I  was  in  a  cellar,  or  some  dark 
place  and  in  danger.  And  what  is  more,  I  don't 
believe  in  them.  I  don't  believe  my  father  and 
mother  are  buried  in  the  ground.  I  believe  they 
both  went  out  to  heaven  before  that  which  they  used 
to  live  in  was  put  in  the  ground.  And,  somehow, 
inside  of  myself  I  know  it  is  so.  Do  you  like  to 
read,  David  Lindsay  ?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

"Yes;  I  learned  to  read  and  write  at  St.  Inigoes 
parish  school ;  but  I  have  no  books  except  Webster's 
Spelling  Book,  and  I  know  every  word  of  that  by 
heart,  even  the  fables." 

"Oh,  then  I  can  bring  you  ever  so  many  books.  I 
have  a  bookcase  full,  all  of  my  own,  in  my  room, 
and  uncle  has  a  great  room  full,  from  the  floor  up  to 
the  ceiling,  all  around  the  walls,  you  know." 

"That  is  very  good  of  you.  I  do  thank  you.  You 
are  the  little  girl  that  lives  up  in  the  house,  then — 
Colonel  de  Crespigney's  niece?" 

"Yes — no.  I  mean  I  am  Madame  de  Crespigney's 
niece;  though,  do  you  know,  it  seems  so  strange,  I 
always  feel  as  if  he  was  more  kin  to  me  than  she 
is!" 

"I  suppose  you  love  him  best;  that  must  be  the 
reason.  Well,  everybody  loves  Colonel  de  Crespi- 
gney.  I  know  I  do.  He  took  me  on  to  work  here  out 
of  kindness,  I  am  sure,  for  he  couldn't  really  want 
me,  you  see,  so  many  colored  people  as  he  has !" 

"He  is  very,  very  good,  and  very  unhappy.  Where 
do  you  live,  David  Lindsay?"  she  inquired,  with  the 
sudden  transition  of  a  child's  thoughts. 

"Do  you  see  that  little,  tiny  bit  of  an  island  out 
there  by  itself?"  he  said,  rising  and  pointing  east 
ward. 


30  GLORIA 

"What! — that  little  sandbank?"  she  exclaimed  in 
surprise. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  house  on  it." 

"A  mere  shed." 

"We  live  in  it,  grandmother  and  I.  And  we  have 
chickens  and  ducks,  and  a  little  bit  of  a  garden,  with 
a  made  soil,  where  we  raise  radishes  and  lettuce 
and  cabbage  and  potatoes." 

"No  flowers?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  a  red  rose-bush,  and  a  white  rose-bush, 
and  pinks,  and  pansies  and  larkspurs." 

"Oh,  that  is  pretty !    Is  your  grandmother  nice?" 

"Oh !  I  tell  you !"  heartily  answered  the  boy. 

"Would  she  let  me  come  to  see  her?" 

"Why,  of  course  she  would,  and  glad !" 

"Well,  then,  will  you  take  me  over  there  to  see 
your  grandmother,  David  Lindsay?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  that  I  will,  if  your  uncle  will  let 
you  go." 

"Oh,  he'll  let  me.  But  how  do  you  get  over  there, 
David  Lindsay?"  inquired  the  child,  gazing  over 
the  expanse  of  water  to  the  little  dot  that  seemed  to 
be  about  half-way  between  the  promontory  and  the 
eastern  horizon. 

"Why,  in  my  little  row-boat,  to  be  sure.  There, 
there  it  is,  tied  to  that  post,"  answered  the  boy, 
pointing  to  a  little  skiff  that  was  rocking  on  the 
water. 

"Oh-h-h!  And  you'll  take  me  in  that?  Oh-h-h! 
Won't  that  be  splendid!  When  will  you  take  me, 
David  Lindsay?"  she  exclaimed,  with  all  a  child's 
eager  delight  in  an  anticipated  holiday. 

"To-morrow,  if  they  will  let  you  go.  To-night 
when  I  go  home,  I  will  tell  my  grandmother,  and 


GLORIA  31 

she  will  have  something  to  please  you  when  you 
come,  you  know." 

"Will  she?  Oh,  how  nice.  I  am  so  glad  I  found 
you.  Ain't  you  glad  you  found  me,  David  Lindsay?1' 

"Oh,  I  tell  you !  Yes,  indeed !  I  was  so  lonesome 
here." 

"So  was  I !  But  we  have  found  one  another ;  we 
won't  be  lonesome  any  more,  will  we?  We  will 
have  such  good  times,  won't  we  now,  David  Lind 
say?" 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"But,  oh,  I  say !  See  here !  I  can't  net  any  more. 
This  hard  twine  hurts  my  fingers  dreadfully,"  said 
little  Glo',  looking  at  her  bruised  digits. 

"I  thought  it  would.  Put  it  up.  It  is  dinner 
time,  too." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,  and  I  must  go  home,"  said 
the  child,  rising  reluctantly. 

"Oh,  no,  please  don't,"  eagerly  exclaimed  the  boy. 
"Stay  here  and  have  some  of  my  dinner." 

"Dinner!"  exclaimed  little  Glo',  looking  all 
around  them  in  vain  search  of  a  kitchen. 

"I  have  brought  it  with  me  in  a  basket,"  David 
explained,  as  he  lifted  a  little  ragged  flag-basket 
from  its  hiding-place  beside  the  boat.  "Sit  down 
and  have  some." 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you,  so  I  will !  I  like  that !"  she 
answered,  promptly  reseating  herself. 

He  then  opened  his  basket,  and  took  from  it,  first, 
a  coarse  crash  towel,  which  he  handed  to  her,  say 
ing: 

"Now  please  to  set  the  table." 

"Set  the  table?"  she  echoed,  in  perplexity. 

"Yes,  you  know,  spread  that  towel  on  the  flat 


32  GLORIA 

stone  by  you,  and  I  will  hand  you  out  the  things  to 
put  on  it." 

"Oh!  yes,  I  know — and  play  we  are  housekeep 
ing!"  she  exclaimed,  delightedly,  as  she  laid  the 
cloth. 

Then  he  handed  her,  in  succession,  a  little 
cracked,  blue-edged  white  plate,  a  broken  knife  and 
fork,  a  little  paper  of  salt,  another  of  bread,  six 
hard  boiled  eggs,  and  a  dozen  young  radishes,  all  of 
which  she  arranged  upon  the  "table"  with  funny 
little  housewifely  care. 

••-Now,  this  will  have  to  be  broiled,"  he  continued, 
as  he  took  from  the  bottom  of  the  basket  a  smoked 
red  herring  on  a  cabbage  leaf  and  laid  it  on  the 
boat. 

"Broiled!"  echoed  the  little  housekeeper,  as  she 
looked  all  about  in  search  of  a  fire. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  laughing,  as  he  went  and 
gathered  up  some  dry,  decayed  driftwood,  and  broke 
it  into  small  chips,  and  piled  it  up  on  some  stones. 
Then  he  took  a  tinder  box,  flint  and  steel,  from  his 
pocket,  struck  a  light,  and  kindled  a  fire. 

"Oh!  that  is  grand!"  exclaimed  the  delighted 
child,  as  she  watched  him,  for  all  this  was  play  to 
her. 

When  the  fire  had  burned  down  to  coals  he  laid 
the  herring  on  it. 

A  fine  appetizing  flavor  soon  arose. 

Little  Glo'  watched  the  boy  as  he  turned  the  her 
ring  until  it  was  done,  and  then  put  it  on  the  blue- 
edged  white  plate  and  set  it  on  the  table. 

"Oh!  isn't  this  just  perfectly  splendid!"  again 
exclaimed  the  child,  as  the  two  sat  down  to  the 
primitive  meal. 


GLORIA  33 

They  chatted  faster  than  they  ate — at  least  little 
Glo'  did. 

When  it  was  over  and  the  plates  and  knife  and 
fork  had  been  put  back  in  the  basket,  the  girl  arose, 
very  unwillingly,  to  depart. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said;  "they  will  all  be  look 
ing  for  me.  But,  oh !  I  have  had  just  such  a  grand 
time,  and  I  am  so  glad  we  found  each  other !  Ain't 
you,  David  Lindsay?" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

She  laughed,  kissed  her  hand  to  him,  and  ran  off 
home,  singing  as  she  went. 

This  was  the  first  meeting  between  Gloria  de  la 
Vera  and  David  Lindsay  ,the  poor  fisher-lad,  whom, 
a  few  years  later,  in  her  utter  desperation,  she  asked 
to  marry  her ;  but  many  strange  events  were  to  hap 
pen  before  she  could  be  driven  to  such  despair  as  to 
cast  her  beautiful  and  blameless  self,  with  her  rank 
and  fortune,  at  the  feet  of  this  humble  lad,  "un 
learned  and  poor,"  and  lose  herself  in  the  deep  dis 
honor  of  a  low  and  loveless  marriage. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  GIRL'S  MISSION  TO  THE  BOY 

She  was  his  star.  BYRON. 

GLORIA,  singing  as  she  went,  and  skipping  like  a 
kid  from  point  to  point,  over  the  breach  in  the  sea 
wall,  and  dancing  through  the  old  grass  meadows 
and  turnip  fields — hurried  on  towards  her  home. 

Suddenly  her  song  ceased,  and  she  stood  still. 


34  GLORIA 

She  saw  her  uncle  walking  alone  with  slow  and 
melancholy  steps,  and  his  head  bowed  down  upon 
his  breast. 

She  would  have  spoken  to  him,  but  he  waved  his 
hand  for  her  to  go  on  to  the  house. 

She  looked  at  him  wishfully,  hesitatingly ;  but  he 
only  smiled  sadly  on  her  and  repeated  his  gesture 
with  more  emphasis. 

Then  she  obeyed  him  and  reluctantly  went  on. 

"That  was  like  meeting  a  ghost,"  she  said;  and 
she  sang  no  more  that  day. 

She  entered  the  house  and  met  Sophia  on  her  way 
through  the  hall  with  a  pail  of  hot  water  in  her 
hand  and  a  look  of  indignation  on  her  face. 

"What's  the  matter,  'Phia?  Has  anything  hap 
pened?  I  met  uncle  outside  the  park  wall  and  he 
looked  awful !  awful !"  said  the  child. 

"Well  he  mought,"  replied  the  woman,  wrath- 
fully.  "There's  been  the  biggest  row  you  ebber  seed 
in  yer  life,  and  you  not  here  to  'vent  of  it." 

"Was  it  auntie  and  uncle?"  inquired  the  child,  in 
a  tone  of  awe. 

"Hi,  who  else?  Yes,  honey,  it  was  master  and  mis- 
t'ess  and  de  debbil !  And  you  not  here  to  carcum- 
went  Satin!" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  I'm  so  sorry.  How  did  it  all  hap 
pen,  'Phia?" 

"Hi!  How  I  know,  chile?  Iwa'n'tdere.  It  hap 
pen  in  de  long  sittin'  room,  in  course,  where  dey 
most  in  gen'al  sits.  Fust  fing  we  cullud  people 
knowed  was  de  bell  rung  wiolent,  an'  I  run  up  an' 
foun'  mist'ess  in  fits  an'  inarster  tryin'  to  fetch  her 
to.  We  toted  her  up  stairs  'tween  us  an'  put  her 
to  bed.  But  soon's  ebber  she  could  speak  she  seiu 
marster  out  o'  de  room.  How  does  it  allers 


GLORIA  35 

honey?  De  debbil!  Dere'll  be  murder  done  here 
some  ob  dese  days — always  the  debbil,  an'  dis  time 
he  had  it  all  his  own  'fernal  way,  'cause  you  wa'n't 
here  to  carcumwent  him." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry.  Poor  uncle!  poor  auntie!" 
sighed  the  child,  with  a  look  of  age  and  care  coming 
over  her  bright  young  face. 

"I'm  mad ;  I  ain't  a  bit  sorry ;  I'm  mad.  If  dem 
two  fools  was  chillun,  dey'd  just  get  good  hoopins 
for  quarrelin'  so ;  an'  bein'  grown-up  'dults,  dey  de- 
sarves  hoopin'  ten  times  as  much  as  chillun,  'cause 
dey's  big  ?nuff  to  know  better !  I  gwine  up  now  to 
put  her  feet  in  hot  water.  I'd  like  to  put  him  and 
her  bofe  in  hot  water  up  to  deir  necks,  an'  keep  'em 
dere  till  they  promise  to  'have  deirselves  better!" 
exclaimed  'Phia,  as  she  took  up  the  pail  and  went 
up  stairs. 

Gloria  looked  after  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  ought 
to  have  rebuked  the  woman  for  her  manner  of  speak 
ing  ;  but  then  she  did  not  wish  to  raise  another  do 
mestic  storm,  and  she  knew  that  'Phia  had  a  tem 
per  that  blazed  up  at  a  word,  as  stubble  flames  up 
at  a  spark.  Indeed,  if  the  child  had  been  required 
to  write  'Phia's  name,  she  would  naturally  have 
written  it  Fire,  and  thought  that  she  was  right. 

She  hung  her  hat  and  sack  on  the  hall-rack,  and 
then  went  softly  up  to  her  aunt's  room  to  sit  with 
her  and  be  ready  to  run  on  any  errand  that  was  re 
quired. 

She  sat  patiently  with  her  auntie  all  the  after 
noon,  reading  a  volume  of  Peter  Parley's  story 
books. 

In  the  evening  she  left  her,  quietly  sleeping,  and 
went  down  stairs  to  make  tea  for  her  uncle. 

It  was  a  rather  silent  meal.    De  Crespigney  was 


36  GLORIA 

absorbed  in  thought,  and  never  spoke  to  the  child 
unless  she  asked  him  some  question,  and  then  he 
answered  absently,  though  in  the  gentlest  tone. 

After  tea  she  left  him  sitting  in  his  old  leathern 
arm-chair  by  the  small  wood-fire  that  the  chill  air 
rendered  necessary  even  in  June,  and  she  went  up 
to  her  own  room  and  crept  into  bed. 

The  next  morning  Madame  de  Crespigney  ap 
peared  at  the  breakfast-table  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  These  stormy  days  are  followed  by  calm 
mornings  in  the  moral  as  well  as  in  the  physical  at 
mosphere. 

Gloria  knew  from  experience  that  after  such  a 
tempestuous  misunderstanding  as  they  had  had  on 
the  previous  day,  her  uncle  and  aunt  would  have  to 
be  left  alone  to  come  to  a  reconciliation.  She  was 
also  glad  of  such  a  good  excuse  to  go  out. 

So,  directly  after  breakfast,  she  went  up  to  her 
bedroom,  opened  her  glass-doored  bookcase,  and, 
after  taking  down  and  putting  up  volume  after  vol 
ume,  she  selected  two  which  she  thought  would  be 
most  beneficial  and  acceptable  to  her  new  friend — 
these  were  the  charming  school-books :  Peter  Par 
ley's  First  Book  of  Geography  and  Peter  Parley's 
First  Book  of  History,  then  just  coming  into  use, 
both  profusely  illustrated  with  maps  and  pictures. 

She  put  on  her  little  rough-and-ready  gray  sack 
and  her  felt  hat — for  it  was  still  chilly  on  the  sea 
side  in  early  June — took  the  two  books  under  her 
arm  and  left  the  house. 

Singing  as  she  tripped  along,  she  hurried  blithely 
down  to  the  breach  in  the  wall,  where  she  found  the 
fisher  boy  busily  engaged  in  smoothing  that  passage 
by  laying  the  fallen  stones  a  little  leveller. 

"Oh,  good-morning,  David  Lindsay!     Will  you 


GLORIA  37 

take  ine  over  in  your  row-boat  to  see  your  grand 
mother  this  morning?"  she  asked  as  she  came  up. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed  I  will,  and  glad  to  do  it !"  replied 
the  lad,  lifting  his  torn  hat  from  his  black  curls  and 
holding  out  his  hand  to  help  her  across  the  broken 
wall. 

She  sat  down  on  the  boat  to  recover  her  breath, 
while  he  said : 

"I  stayed  here  last  night  until  ten  o'clock,  work 
ing  to  finish  my  nets,  and  so  get  time  to  take  you 
over  to-day.  And  then  I  came  at  daybreak  this 
morning,  and  have  been  here  ever  since,  so  I  have 
earned  a  holiday." 

"Oh,  how  good  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble  for 
me;  but  how  could  you  see  to  do  your  work,  after 
the  sun  went  down?" 

"The  stars  came  out.  It  was  one  of  the  brightest 
starlight  nights  I  ever  saw!  Besides,  netting,  you 
know,  is  such  mere  finger-work,  that  I  could  almost 
do  it  with  my  eyes  shut.  Are  you  ready  to  go?" 

"Presently.  Sit  down  here  by  me,  I  want  to  show 
you  something." 

The  boy  seated  himself  beside  her. 

"Here,"  she  said,  producing  the  First  Book  in 
Geography,  and  opening  upon  a  page  of  engravings 
in  sections  representing  the  five  races  of  man. 

"Oh-h-h I"  exclaimed  the  boy  in  delight,  as  he  took 
the  volume  from  her  hands  and  gazed  with  devour 
ing  eyes  upon  the  fascinating  page. 

He  had  never  seen  a  picture  of  an  Indian,  an 
Ethiopian,  a  Mongolian,  or  a  Malay  in  all  his  life, 
and  now  he  gazed  in  a  breathless  rapture  upon 
these. 

Pictures  were  almost  unknown  to  him — the  pic 
tures  in  his  grandmother's  old  family  Bible  and  the 


38  GLORIA 

half-a-dozen  little  illustrations  above  the  fables  in 
Webster's  Spelling  Book,  being  all  that  he  had  ever 
seen. 

"Oh-h-h,  you  can't  think  how  much  I  do  thank  you 
for  lending  me  this  splendid  book !"  he  exclaimed, 
with  fervent  gratitude. 

"Oh,  indeed,  I  am  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you 
for  being  so  pleased  with  it!  It  makes  me  feel  so 
happy,  you  know!  But  turn  over  the  next  page. 
Oh,  there  are  ever  so  many  more  nice  pictures  in 
it!" 

"Are  there?"  he  asked,  and  immediately  turned 
the  page  to  discover  more  and  more  treasures — 
Esquimaux  and  white  bears  of  the  Arctic  circle; 
elk,  moose,  and  reindeer,  and  red  Indians  of  the 
northern  lakes  and  forests ;  seals,  beavers,  Cana 
dians,  New  England  farms,  churches,  school-houses, 
New  York  seaports,  shipping,  and  warehouses; 
Western  prairies,  forests  and  rivers ;  Southern  bays, 
isles,  and  cotton  plantations. 

"Oh !  oh !  oh !" 

What  a  treasury  of  happiness  to  the  poor  boy, 
hungering  and  thirsting  for  knowledge,  who  had 
scarcely  ever  seen  three  books  or  a  dozen  pictures 
in  his  life  before,  and  who  had  scarcely  any  con 
ception  of  any  world  beyond  the  horizon  of  his  nat 
ural  vision ! 

And  as  yet  he  had  seen  only  a  few  index  pictures 
of  North  America. 

South  America  and  all  the  Western  Hemisphere 
was  to  follow  in  that  delightful  book. 

"Oh,  you  never  can  know  how  much  I  thank  you 
for  this  beautiful  book!"  he  exclaimed,  with  en 
thusiasm. 

"Why,  don't  I  tell  you  I  am  ever  so  much  obliged 


GLORIA  39 

to  you  for  liking  it  so  well !"  said  Gloria,  her  own 
blue  eyes  dancing  with  the  delight  of  delighting. 

Over  and  over  he  turned  the  bewitching  pages, 
finding  more  and  more  pleasure  as  he  went  on  even 
to  the  end  of  the  book — the  picture  of  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  with  Cape  Colony. 

He  had  taken  some  time  to  look  through  the  vol 
ume,  pausing  long  over  each  picture.  So  when  he 
closed  it,  he  arose  and  said : 

"I  could  sit  all  day  and  night  and  look  at  this 
book,  and  forget  to  eat  or  sleep,  I  do  believe;  but  I 
reckon  it  is  time  for  us  to  go  now." 

"No,  sit  down  again.  I  have  got  something  else 
to  show  you,"  she  answered. 

He  obediently  reseated  himself,  and  she  put  in  his 
hand  "The  First  Book  of  History,"  profusely  illus 
trated  with  pictures  of  battles  and  conventions  and 
portraits  of  military  heroes  and  statesmen. 

"Oh-h-h !"  again  exclaimed  the  boy,  as  he  opened 
at  a  portrait  of  George  Washington  on  one  side,  and 
the  signing  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  on 
the  other. 

He  turned  over  page  after  page,  finding  fresh  food 
for  intellect  and  imagination  in  every  one,  wrhile  the 
little  girl  watched  him  with  her  blue  eyes  sparkling 
in  sympathetic  pleasure. 

"Oh,  how  rich  I  shall  feel,  with  these  two  books 
to  read  every  night !  I  shall  never  go  to  bed  at  dusk 
when  granny  does  because  I  am  lonesome.  I  shall 
never  be  lonesome  now,"  he  said. 

"I  am  so  glad,  and  so  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  being  so  happy  over  them,  David  Lindsay,"  she 
repeated,  writh  more  emphasis. 

There  is  no  knowing  how  long  the  two  children 
might  have  lingered,  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  old 


40  GLORIA 

boat — he  poring  with  rapture  over  the  book,  she 
watching  his  enjoyment  with  ecstasy ;  but  the  hour 
of  noon  came  and  passed,  and  the  healthy  young 
appetite  of  the  boy  would  not  allow  him  to  "forget 
to  eat." 

"Oh,  how  late  it  is!"  he  exclaimed,  reluctantly 
closing  the  book  just  at  the  picture  of  General 
Washington  receiving  the  sword  of  Lord  Cornwallis 
after  the  battle  of  Yorktown.  "Come,  we  had  better 
go  now." 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  we  had.  You  can  read  the 
books  every  night,  can't  you,  David  Lindsay?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  And  when  you  are  up  at  the  house 
enjoying  yourself  with  all  your  friends,  you  may 
think  of  me  reading  your  books." 

"Oh!  they  are  your  books,  David  Lindsay,"  she 
hastened  to  exclaim. 

"I  daren't  take  them  from  you  only  as  a  loan; 
but,  oh!  I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  that. 
Come  carefully  over  all  this  rubbish.  Let  me  take 
your  hand.  There,  now,  step  into  the  boat  and  sit 
down  while  I  untie  her.  Don't  be  afraid.  She  will 
not  turn  over." 

The  child  suffered  him  to  put  her  into  the  rough 
little  old  shell  that  lay  rocking  on  the  sea. 

He  quickly  unmoored  the  boat,  got  into  it,  seated 
himself,  and  rowed  towards  the  little  sand-hill  that 
seemed  a  mere  mote  on  the  water. 

David  rowed  vigorously,  and  the  little  skiff  shot 
over  the  sea,  and  rapidly  approached  the  island. 

First  she  saw  the  sandy  little  hillock ;  next,  that 
there  was  a  tiny  house  on  it,  with  trees  on  the 
farther  side ;  then,  as  the  boat  reached  the  shore  and 
grounded,  she  saw  that  the  house  was  a  small  cot 
tage  with  a  gable  roof  and  one  chimney;  with  one 


GLORIA  41 

door  and  window  on  the  ground  floor,  and  one 
tiny,  square  window  above  in  the  gable.  There  were 
no  shutters  to  the  windows,  but  they  were  shaded 
from  within  by  flowered  wall-paper  blinds.  The 
little  house  was  whitewashed  with  lime,  and  the  door 
was  painted  with  red  ochre,  a  coarse  coloring  mat 
ter  got  from  the  soil  on  the  main.  A  little  garden 
around  the  house,  with  a  "made  soil,"  was  fenced 
in  with  a  whitewashed  picket  fence.  Lilies,  Canter 
bury-bells,  hollyhocks,  pinks,  larkspurs,  and  other 
sweet,  old-fashioned  flowers  grew  in  the  front  yard. 
A  red  rose-bush  and  a  white  rose-bush  were  trained, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  door.  A  white  dog,  of  a 
nondescript  race,  was  asleep  on  the  step,  and  a 
black  kitten  was  curled  up  snugly  on  his  back. 
These  proverbial  "natural  enemies"  had  never  been 
anything  but  loving  friends. 

At  the  approach  of  David  the  dog  sprang  up, 
wide  awake,  overturning  the  kitten,  who  put  up  her 
back,  gaped,  and  stretched  herself,  while  Jack  ran 
forward  and  leaped  upon  his  master,  who  did  not 
order  him  "down,  sir !"  but  patted  his  head  and  re 
turned  caress  for  caress. 

The  red  door  opened  then,  and  a  smiling  old 
woman  appeared — Mrs.  Lindsay,  David's  grand 
mother. 

She  was  a  small,  plump,  fair-faced,  blue-eyed 
dame,  with  the  white  hair  of  sixty  years  parted 
plainly  over  her  forehead,  and  banded  back  under 
a  clean  linen  cap.  She  wore  a  striped  blue  and 
white  cotton  gown,  of  her  own  spinning  and  weav 
ing,  and  a  white  handkerchief  folded  over  her 
bosom,  and  a  white  apron  tied  before  her  gown. 

She  came  forward,  smiling  pleasantly  as  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  the  child,  while  she  spoke  to  David. 


42  GLORIA 

"Is  this  the  little  lady  you  have  brought  to  visit 
me?  I  am  very  pleased  to  see  thee,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  ma'am !  It  was  so  nice  of  you  to 
let  me  come !  And  I  like  David  Lindsay.  He  is  all 
the  playmate  I  have  got.  But  he's  splendid !"  said 
the  child,  with  enthusiasm. 

The  old  woman  smiled  on  her,  patted  the  tiny 
hand  she  held  in  her  own,  and  then  led  her  into  the 
house. 

It  was  a  good  sized  room,  with  clean,  white 
washed  walls,  the  one  window  shaded  with  a  home 
made  blind  of  flowered  wall-paper;  the  floor  of 
wide  planks,  perfectly  bare,  yet  scrubbed  to  a 
creamy  whiteness;  in  one  corner  a  neat  bed,  with 
a  patchwork  quilt  and  snowy  pillows;  in  another 
corner  a  loom,  with  a  piece  of  cloth  in  process  of 
weaving ;  in  a  third,  a  large  spinning-wheel ;  in  the 
fourth,  a  corner  cupboard,  with  glass  doors  in  the 
upper  part,  through  which  might  be  seen  the  clean, 
coarse,  blue-edged  crockery  ware,  and  the  bright 
pewter  dishes  of  the  little  menage. 

In  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood  a  table  covered 
with  a  coarse  but  snow-white  cloth,  and  adorned 
with  blue-edge  cups  and  saucers  and  plates,  while 
on  the  clean,  red  ochre-painted  hearth  stood  a  tea 
pot  and  several  covered  plates  and  dishes,  before 
the  clear  fire  in  the  small  open  fire-place. 

"Come,  lass,  let  me  take  off  ?ee  coat,"  said  the 
kind  little  woman,  beginning  to  unbutton  and  untie 
until  she  had  relieved  the  child  of  her  hat  and 
sack. 

"Now,  sit  ?ee  down,  lass,  while  I  put  dinner  on 
the  table,"  she  continued,  depositing  her  small  visi 
tor  on  a  low  chip-bottomed  chair,  near  the  window- 


GLORIA  43 

sill,  on  which,  stood  a  box  of  mignonette,  that  filled 
the  homely  room  with  fragrance. 

"  'Ee's  late,  Dave.  I  thought  'ee'd  be  here  wi'  the 
lass  an  hour  ago,  and  had  all  ready  for  ?ee,"  said 
the  old  woman,  as  she  began  to  place  dinner  on  the 
table. 

"We  were  reading  of  a  book  what  the  little  lady 
loaned  me,"  replied  the  boy,  as  he  carefully  placed 
the  two  volumes  on  each  side  the  Bible,  which 
stood  upon  a  chest  of  drawers  at  the  end  of  the 
room,  between  the  bed  and  the  corner  cupboard. 

"It  was  my  fault.  I  stopped  David  Lindsay  to 
show  him  the  books,"  put  in  the  child. 

"It  wasn't  ?ee  fault,  then.  It  was  'ee  goodness, 
little  lass.  And  it's  na  great  matter.  The  dinner 
is  no  sich  that  it  can  be  spoiled,"  said  Dame  Lind 
say,  as  she  placed  the  last  dish  on  the  table,  and 
then  led  her  small  guest  to  a  seat. 

Poor  as  these  cotters  were  in  all  things  else,  they 
were  not  poor  in  regard  to  food. 

The  sea  supplied  them  with  fish  for  immediate 
use,  and  for  salting  away  against  winter;  the  two 
pigs  that  they  bought  and  raised  at  a  trifling  cost 
every  year,  provided  them  with  pork  and  bacon; 
the  small  poultry-yard  with  fowls  and  eggs;  the 
patch  of  garden  with  vegetables  and  fruit ;  the  little 
Alderney  cow  with  milk  and  butter. 

The  few  other  provisions  they  needed  were  easily 
procurable  at  the  nearest  country  store  on  the  main, 
in  exchange  for  the  excellent  cotton  hose  and  mit 
tens  knit  by  the  industrious  and  skillful  hands  of 
the  old  dame. 

Other  trifling  expenses  of  the  little  household 
were  met  by  the  money  earned  by  David  on  the  fish 
ing  landing  of  the  promontory. 


44  GLORIA 

The  dainty  midday  meat  set  before  the  little  lady 
guest  was  not  at  all  an  every-day  affair,  but  was 
got  up  expressly  for  her.  It  was  very  attractive — 
nice  fragrant  tea,  with  rich  cream  and  white  sugar ; 
nice  light,  home-made  bread,  with  sweet,  fresh  but 
ter  ;  fried  bluefish,  just  out  of  the  sea;  poached  eggs 
on  toast;  boiled  spring  chicken;  mashed  potatoes, 
green  peas,  lettuce,  radishes,  and,  finally,  cherry 
pie,  strawberries  and  cream,  and  a  plenty  of  new 
milk. 

Little  Glo>  ate — well,  like  a  healthy  child,  with  an 
excellent  appetite,  and  no  one  near  to  curb  it. 

"It  is  the  nicest  dinner  I  ever  had  in  all  the  days 
of  my  life,  and — I  have  been  at  big  dinner  parties, 
too,  before  I  came  to  the  promontory!"  she  de 
clared,  with  equal  frankness  and  emphasis,  as  she 
arose  from  the  table. 

At  least,  it  was  the  most  enjoyable. 

The  old  dame  smiled  on  her,  and  David  felt  so 
pleased  and  proud ! 

Ay!  the  Earl  of  Leicester  entertaining  Queen 
Elizabeth  at  Kenilworth  Castle  could  not  have  felt 
more  elevated  in  spirits  by  her  majesty's  august 
approbation  than  was  the  fisher-boy  by  the  pleasure 
of  his  little  lady  guest. 

"Mayhap  'ee'll  come  again  to  see  us,  little  lady," 
said  the  old  dame. 

"Oh,  indeed,  indeed,  indeed  I  will !  Just  as  often 
as  you'll  please  to  let  me  come!  Oh,  it  is  so  nice 
here !  I'll  be  sure  to  come  just  as  often  as  ever  you 
will  let  me  come!"  exclaimed  the  child,  heartily. 

"That  will  be  as  often  as  'ee  likes,"  said  the  old 
dame. 

Then,  assisted  by  David,  she  hastily  cleared  away 
the  table,  taking  the  dishes  into  the  "lean-to"  be- 


GLORIA  45 

hind  the  cottage,  there  to  remain  until  she  could 
wash  them  up  after  the  departure  of  the  visitor. 

Then  she  set  herself  to  entertain  the  little  lady. 

She  showed  her  all  the  few  curiosities  of  the  cot 
tage — some  strange  South  Sea  shells  that  had  been 
brought  home  by  a  sailor  ancestor  ages  before,  and 
which  now  decorated  the  low  wooden  chimney  shelf ; 
then  the  rusty  old  gun  that  had  been  carried  by  her 
own  grandfather  in  the  Revolutionary  War;  then 
some  stuffed  birds,  some  skeletons  of  strange  fish, 
and  some  odd-looking  pebbles  from  the  beach. 

Next  she  exhibited  some  of  the  small  treasures  of 
her  chest  of  drawers — a  curious  patch-work  quilt 
that  had  won  the  prize  in  a  certain  agricultural 
and  industrial  fair  held  at  St.  Inigoes  many  years 
before. 

"And  did  you  sew  all  these  little  pieces  of  colored 
calico  and  white  cotton  together  with  your  own 
fingers ?"  inquired  the  child,  with  interest. 

"Yes,  dearie,  I  did." 

"Oh,  how  curious  and  how  pretty !  How  I  would 
like  to  do  that !  We  have  got  ever  and  ever  so  many 
calico  and  cotton  pieces  in  the  scrap-bags  at  home! 
If  I  bring  some  over  here,  wben  I  come  again,  will 
you  show  me  how  to  cut  the  pieces  into  leaves,  and 
flowers,  and  things,  and  sew  them  together  like 
this?" 

"Yes,  little  lass,  I  will  teach  ?ee  with  good  will ; 
for  I  do  think  it  a  merit  to  save  up  the  scraps  and 
turn  them  to  good  account,  though  they  do  tell  me 
that  now-a-days  quilts  are  made  by  masonry,  and 
sell  cheaper  than  we  could  make  'em  by  hand.  'Ee 
sees,  dearie,  I  use  to  make  ?em  to  sell;  but  now  I 
can't  get  anybody  to  give  me  enough  to  pay  for  my 
work  on  'em.  So  now  I  knit  socks  and  mittens." 


46  GLORIA 

"They  make  them  by  machinery,  too,"  said  the 
child. 

"Yes,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  and  they  didn't 
come  to  hatch  chickens  by  masonry  some  of  these 
days!  Well  a-day!  No  masonry  stockings  can 
eekill  my  knitted  stockings,  and  that  the  store 
keeper  knows,  and  allus  takes  'em  from  me  and  pays 
me  well  in  tea  and  sugar,  and  whatever  I  may  want. 
As  to  the  quilt-piecing,  lass,  I'll  teach  'ee  with  good 
will.  'Ee's  a  plenty  of  leisure,  I'll  warrant,  and 
?ee's  well  spend  it  that  way  in  saving  the  scraps  and 
turning  'em  to  account  as  in  another,"  concluded 
the  canny  old  dame,  as  she  folded  her  prize  quilt, 
replaced  it,  and  closed  the  drawer. 

"Oh,  I  think  it  is  such  pretty  and  curious  work, 
and  it  is  so — economical!"  said  the  little  child- 
woman.  "I  shall  be  so  glad  to  learn !" 

"She  likes  to  learn  everything  she  sees  going  on," 
added  David,  who,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
stood  a  smiling  spectator  of  the  scene. 

"That's  right.  Larn  all  'ee  can,  little  lass.  Now 
come  wi'  me,  and  I'll  show  'ee  the  young  ducks  that 
were  hatched  yesterday." 

"Oh !"  cried  the  child,  jumping  up  in  glee.  "I 
never  saw  young  ducks  in  all  my  life !  What  a  nice 
place  this  is !" 

"What!  Don't  they  show  'ee  the  young  things 
up  by,  at  the  house?"  inquired  the  dame. 

"No,  ma'am ;  they  never  thought  of  it,  I  reckon ; 
no  more  did  I,"  answered  the  child,  as  she  followed 
her  conductress  out  into  the  poultry-yard. 

She  saw  the  young  ducklings  that  were  just  out ; 
then  she  saw  the  little  chickens  that  were  a  week 
old,  and  seemed  to  know  as  much  about  life  as  she 


GLORIA  47 

herself  did.  Then  she  was  taken  through  the  gar 
den,  and  she  saw  the  strawberry  bed  and  the  one 
cherry  tree,  with  its  bright  red  fruit  hiding  in  its 
green  leaves,  and  the  crooked  apple  tree  that  bore 
the  green  sweetings  which  would  soon  be  ripe,  and 
the  currant  bushes  along  the  walk,  with  the  small 
beds  of  peas  and  cabbage  and  corn  between  them, 
and  then  the  bee  hive  and  the  two  white  pigs,  and 
Winny,  the  little  black  and  white  cow,  in  her  shed. 

Then  they  went  in. 

"Oh !  what  a  nice  place  this  is !  The  nicest  place 
I  ever  saw !"  said  the  child. 

"  'Ee  must  come  often  to  see  it,  if  7ee  likes  it  so 
well,"  said  the  dame,  who  felt  flattered  by  the 
child's  sincere  admiration ;  "  'ee  must  come  often, 
but  now  it  is  getting  late  i'  the  afternoon,  and  I 
must  send  'ee  home  to  'ee  friends,  lest  harm  come 
to  'ee  through  this  visit." 

David,  who  had  kept  close  to  the  pair  all  the  day, 
now  left  them  to  get  the  boat  ready. 

The  old  dame  carefully  put  on  the  child's  hat  and 
sack,  and  then  threw  a  shawl  over  her  own  head, 
and  led  the  little  one  down  to  the  water's  edge, 
where  David  stood  in  the  boat,  waiting. 

The  child  threw  her  arms  around  the  old  woman's 
neck,  and  kissed  her  heartily,  many  times,  thanking 
her  warmly  for  the  "happy,  happy  day"  she  had 
had. 

The  dame  responded  cordially. 

David  then  handed  the  little  girl  into  the  boat, 
unmoored,  and  rowed  rapidly  for  the  promontory 
landing,  which  they  reached  in  a  few  minutes. 

The  sun  was  just  setting. 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  I  have  had  such  a  splendid 


48  GLORIA 

time!    Oh!  I  am  so  glad  I  found  you!"  exclaimed 
little  Glo',  as  he  helped  her  out  of  the  boat. 

"Oh,  so  am  I!  Ever  so  glad!  And  I  think  we 
ought  to  thank  the  Lord !"  he  added,  solemnly. 

"Oh !  I  will,  when  I  say  my  prayers  to-night.  Are 
you  going  to  study  your  books  this  evening,  David 
Lindsay?" 

"Yes,  indeed.    What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Oh,  I — I  think  I  will  look  out  some  more  books 
for  you,  and  then  I  will  hunt  out  some  pretty  bright 
pieces  of  calico  from  the  scrap-bag,  to  learn  to  make 
patch- work  quilts,  and  have  them  ready  against  the 
next  time  I  go  to  see  your  grandmother." 

"When  will  you  come  again?  To-morrow?"  anx 
iously  inquired  the  toy,  as  he  leaned  on  his  oar. 

"Oh,  no,  not  to-morrow;  not  to  see  your  grand 
mother,  to  put  her  to  so  much  trouble,  you  know; 
but  I  will  come  down  here  to  the  landing  to  see  you, 
David  Lindsay." 

"Oh,  yes,  please  do." 

"Well,  good-bye,  David  Lindsay." 

"Good-bye." 

"God  bless  you,  David  Lindsay!" 

"And  you,  too." 

"I  won't  forget  to  thank  Him  when  I  say  my 
prayers  to-night." 

"No  more  will  I." 

"Well,  good-bye  again,  David  Lindsay." 

"Good-bye."  He  did  not  want  to  call  her  Miss 
de  la  Vera,  much  less  Miss  Gloria ;  he  could  not  call 
her  little  Glo\  He  felt,  without  in  the  least  under 
standing  his  feelings,  that  the  first  style  would  be 
too  cold  and  stiff,  and  the  last  perhaps  too  familiar, 
so  he  called  her  "you,"  putting  all  respect  in  his 
low  and  modulated  tone.  There  was  much  of  na- 


GLORIA  49 

ture's  gentleman  in  this  poor  little  lad  in  the  ragged 
straw  hat. 

He  waited,  hat  in  hand,  until  she  had  turned  and 
tripped  lightly  over  the  broken  sea  wall  and  passed 
out  of  sight. 

Then  he  covered  his  head,  sat  down  in  his  boat, 
took  the  oar  and  reluctantly  shoved  off  from  the 
shore,  while  she  ran  home,  singing  and  dancing  as 
she  went. 

She  ran  into  the  house  and  went  directly  to  seek 
Sophia. 

"Have  they  been  worried  about  me,  'Phia?"  she 
inquired. 

"No,  honey;  dey's  been  too  much  took  up  wid 
'spoundin'  an'  'splainin'  'bout  yes'day's  fuss  to  fink 
?bout  you.  Leastways,  mist'ess  was ;  dough  marster 
did  'quire  arter  you  when  dey  sat  down  to  dinner  an' 
you  wa'n't  dere.  Says  he: 

"  'Whey's  de  chile?' 

"Says  she: 

"  'Oh,  never  mind  de  chile ;  she's  running  round 
de  place  somew'ere,  an'  'Phia  can  give  her  her  din 
ner  when  she  comes  in.  Tell  me  what  you  meant 

by '  somefin'  or  oder,  Lord  knows  what,  honey ; 

but  at  it  dey  went,  'spoundin'  and  'splainin'.  But 
where  is  you  been  all  de  live-long  day,  little  Glo'?" 
demanded  the  woman. 

"Oh,  'Phia !  I  have  had  such  a  happy,  happy  day  T' 
replied  the  child. 

And  then  she  told  the  cook  all  about  her  visit, 
adding : 

"And  granny  Lindsay  begged  me  to  come  ever  so 
often!" 

"Yes,  honey;  mighty  good  ob  de  ole  woman.  I 
knows  her,  honey,  and  has  buyed  mittens  ob  her — 


50  GLORIA 

woolen  mittens,  which  she  knitted,  Iv  -ney.  But  you 
mustn't  go  too  often,  honey.  One  fing,  you  mustn't 
be  too  intimit  wid  people  ob  dat  low  order  ob  deei- 
ety.  Not  as  I  am  sayin'  but  dey  may  be  jes'  as  good 
as  we  is,  in  de  sight  ob  de  Lord,  if  dey  'haves  deir- 
selves;  but  still,  'ciety  is  to  be  despected.  An' 
another  fing,  honey,  is,  dey  can't  deford  it;  dey 
can't,  indeed ;  dey  can't  deford  to  'tain  a  little  lady 
on  fry  chickens  an'  sich,  wrerry  often." 

Now,  the  first  clause  of  this  speech,  concerning 
caste,  slipped  through  the  child's  ears  without  mak 
ing  the  slightest  impression,  but  the  second  clause, 
about  the  expense  of  her  visit  to  the  fisherman's  cot 
tage,  fixed  her  attention. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  thought  of  that ;  so  I  told  David  Lind 
say  I  could  not  go  to-morrow.  'Phia,  you  are  right," 
she  said,  as  she  ran  up  stairs.  She  did  not  go  to 
the  sitting-room  to  interrupt  the  tete-d  tete  of  her 
aunt  and  uncle,  but  up  to  the  attic  to  hunt  for 
bright  pieces  in  the  scrap-bag,  singing  and  dancing 
as  she  went. 

When  she  met  her  relatives  at  tea  that  night  they 
did  not  even  think  of  asking  her  where  she  had 
been.  They  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  she 
had  come  in  soon  after  dinner,  and  had  been  prop 
erly  attended  by  'Phia. 

So  the  child's  holiday  escaped  their  notice. 

The  next  morning,  Gloria,  true  to  her  promise, 
went  down  to  the  landing,  wiiere  she  found  David 
sitting  in  the  old  boat,  mending  nets. 

His  face  broke  into  a  smile  as  he  took  off  his  hat 
and  stood  up  to  receive  her. 

"Good-morning,  David  Lindsay.  Did  you  study 
your  book  last  night?"  she  inquired,  with  childish 
frankness. 


GLORIA  51 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed !  And  I  have  brought  the  geog 
raphy  here  with  me  to  take  a  glimpse  of  it  now 
and  then;  but  it  is  such  a  temptation  to  slight  my 
work,  that  I  shall  have  to  leave  it  home  after  this," 
replied  the  lad,  still  standing,  hat  in  hand. 

"Oh,  no,  don't  you  do  that,  David  Lindsay !  Please 
don't !  Bee,  now,  sit  down  and  take  up  your  netting 
and  go  on  with  it,  and  I  will  sit  by  and  read  the  les 
sons  out,  and  ask  the  questions  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  so  you  can  tell  if  you  know  them." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall  like  that ;  for  then  I  can  do  my 
work  and  learn  my  lesson  at  the  same  time.  How 
good  you  are  to  me.  What  makes  you  so  good  to 
me?" 

"Why,"  she  said,  opening  her  blue  eyes  wide  and 
looking  at  him  with  surprise,  "don't  you  know? 
You  are  my  playmate,  and  we  are  going  to  play 
school?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Now  give  me  the  book,  David  Lindsay,  and  sit 
down  and  go  on  with  your  netting.  Now,  how  far 
had  you  got?"  she  inquired,  when  they  were  seated 
opposite  each  other  in  the  old  stranded  boat. 

"Up  to  'What  is  a  cape?'  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can  find  the  place.  Now  pay  attention, 
David  Lindsay,"  she  said,  as  she  took  up  the  book, 
opened  it,  assumed  a  grave,  school-ma'am  air,  and 
asked : 

"  What  is  a  cape?'  " 

"  *A  cape  is  a  point  of  land  pretending  into  the 
sea,' "  answered  the  pupil. 

"  'Ex-tending  into  the  sea,'  David  Lindsay,"  cor 
rected  the  little  teacher. 

"'EX-tending  into  the  sea,'"  emphatically 
amended  the  pupil. 


52  GLORIA 

"That  is  right.    Now,  then,  'What  is  a  promon 
tory?'  " 

"  *A    promontory    is    a    high    point    of    land 

"No! 


"Yes." 

"EX-tending  into  the  sea  !" 

"That  is  right,  David  Lindsay.  You  will  soon 
learn  geography." 

She  went  on  with  the  lesson,  slowly  drilling  it 
into  the  head  of  the  boy,  who,  with  his  divided  at 
tention,  was  a  fair  illustration  of  "the  pursuit  of 
knowledge  under  difficulties." 

But  before  his  little  teacher  left  him  that  day,  he 
had  managed  to  master  the  principal  divisions  of 
land  and  water,  and  better  than  all,  he  had  been 
inspired  with  the  love  and  desire  of  knowledge. 

This  was  the  little  lady's  mission  to  the  fisher-lad, 
who,  a  few  years  later,  in  the  desperation  of  her 
unparalleled  extremity,  she  was  to  ask  to  be  her 
husband. 


CHAPTER   IV 

LITTLE  GLO^S  JOY  AND  WOE 

She  grew  a  flower  of  mind  and  eye. 

WORDSWORTH. 

WE  have  lingered  a  little  over  these  first  days  of 
their  childish  friendship,  because  they  were  types 
of  so  many  days  that  followed,  all  through  the  bud 
ding  spring,  the  blooming  summer,  and  the  fruitful 
autumn. 


GLORIA  53 

The  little  girl  was  allowed  to  do  very  much  as  she 
pleased  by  her  studious  uncle  and  invalid  aunt,  as  it 
was  scarcely  possible  that  she  would  <krun  into  any 
danger,  or  fall  into  any  sin,"  on  so  isolated  a  place 
as  the  promontory,  where  there  was  neither  evil 
companions  or  wild  beasts  to  deprave  or  destroy 
her. 

On  the  main  she  might  have  been  more  closely 
looked  after;  but  here  she  wras  so  safe  that  not  a 
thought  was  given  to  her  safety. 

So,  every  day,  when  it  did  not  rain,  little  Gloria 
went  down  to  the  landing  to  see  her  playmate  and 
read  to  him  while  he  mended  old  nets  and  seines, 
or  made  new  ones. 

At  first  she  was  only  "playing  school,"  but  later 
on  she  understood  her  work  and  grew  interested  in 
the  progress  of  her  pupil;  and  thus  her  play  rose 
into  "a  labor  of  love." 

Together  they  went  through  the  First  Book  in 
Geography,  and  the  First  Book  in  History,  and  the 
Primary  Grammar. 

And  in  this  way  the  child  not  only  advanced  her 
pupil  playmate,  but  refreshed  her  own  memory  in 
those  studies,  which  had  been  too  much  neglected 
since  her  arrival  at  the  promontory. 

A  pure,  sweet,  and  faithful  affection  grew  up  be 
tween  the  two  children,  such  as  we  have  sometimes 
seen  between  two  little  girls  or  two  little  boys;  only 
because  neither  Gloria  nor  David  had  any  other 
playmate  to  divide  their  attention,  their  innocent 
affection  was  all  the  stronger,  deeper,  and  more  de 
voted  in  its  exclusiveness. 

Very  often,  too,  the  fisher-boy  brought  an  invita 
tion  from  his  grandmother  to  the  little  lady  to 
spend  a  day  on  the  sand-hill  which  the  old  dame 


54  GLORIA 

called  her  home.  It  was  always  accepted,  and  al 
ways  Gloria  had  "a  happy,  happy  day." 

She  learned  of  the  old  cottager  to  net,  to  knit,  to 
sew,  to  piece  patchwork  quilts  out  of  scraps  of 
bright  calico  and  white  linen,  and  to  plait  door 
mats  out  of  strips  of  brilliant  cloth  or  flannel — arts 
not  likely  to  be  of  much  use  to  the  West  Indian  heir 
ess — but  she  liked  to  learn  them,  notwithstanding. 

"Wouldn't  I  make  a  right  good  little  cottage  girl, 
after  all,  Granny  Lindsay?"  she  once  asked  her  old 
friend,  in  her  childish  love  of  approbation. 

"  'Ee  would,  my  darling,"  said  the  old  dame,  ten 
derly.  "  'Ee  would  make  a  helpful,  loving  little  lass 
by  the  cottage  fire,  or  a  gracious  benign  princess  in 
a  palace.  The  world's  breath  of  sunshine  is  for  'ee, 
my  flower,  from  the  cottage  to  the  palace." 

"I  saw  some  palaces  in  Havana,  but  I  would 
rather  have  a  cottage  just  like  this !  Oh,  I  think  a 
cottage  is  so  nice  and  cosy,  and  so — SPLENDID  !"  ex 
claimed  the  little  girl,  with  child-like  exaggeration 
and  misapplication  of  words. 

So  the  once  lonely  child  found  much  joy  in  her 
humble  friends,  giving  and  receiving  good,  while 
spring  bloomed  into  summer,  and  summer  ripened 
into  autumn,  and  autumn  faded  into  winter. 

The  came  cold,  and  frost,  and  change,  a  bitter 
change  for  little  Gloria. 

Her  playmate's  work  was  now  the  clearing  up  of 
the  fishing  landing,  mending  boats  and  oars,  and 
putting  them  away  for  winter — work  that  could  not 
go  on  parallel  with  his  studies,  which  were  now 
pursued  in  the  evenings  at  his  own  home. 

Yet  Gloria  came  down  late  in  the  afternoon  on 
every  clear  day  to  hear  him  say  his  lessons.  He  told 


GLORIA  55 

her  that  this  helped  him  on  "ever  so  much."  And  it 
pleased  her. 

One  day  after  sunset,  when  she  had  heard  her 
pupil's  lesson  in  a  very  elementary  book  of  astron 
omy,  and  had  praised  his  quick  apprehension  and 
patient  application,  and  had  greatly  encouraged 
him,  as  she  always  did,  she  took  leave  and  ran  home/ 
singing  and  dancing  as  she  went. 

When  she  reached  the  house,  she  found  'Phia  at 
the  door,  looking  out  for  her. 

"Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  come  in,  child,"  said  the 
woman,  in  a  frightened  tone. 

"What — what  is  the  matter?  What  has  hap 
pened?"  cried  Gloria,  catching  terror  from  the 
other. 

"I  dunno.  Somefin*  awful!  Mistress  has  been 
goin'  on  at  that  rate!  She  done  put  de  debbil  in 
marster  now,  sure !  Mind,  I  tell  you,  honey,  dere'll 
be  murder  done  here  some  ob  dese  days !  Mark  my 
words  I" 

With  a  slight  scream  the  terrified  child  fled  from 
this  prophetess  of  evil  toward  the  sitting-room, 
where  she  heard  the  sound  of  high  words. 

She  opened  the  door  and  hurried  in. 

And  this  was  what  she  saw : 

Her  uncle  standing  on  the  corner  of  the  hearth, 
with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece,  his  head  leaning 
on  his  hand,  whose  fingers  were  clutched  into  his 
black  hair;  his  starting  black  eyes  staring  down 
upon  the  floor;  his  black  brows  knitted,  his  teeth 
clenched,  his  face  pallid  with  suppressed  passion. 

Her  aunt,  with  her  white  dress  and  yellow  hair 
in  wild  disorder,  as  if  her  own  desperate  hands  had 
rent  and  torn  them,  was  raging  up  and  down  the 
floor  like  a  tigress  in  her  cage,  pouring  forth  all  the 


56  GLORIA 

gall  and  venom  of  her  jealous  fury,  in  words  that 
might  never  be  forgiven  or  forgotten. 

Even  the  child  intuitively  perceived  this,  and 
feared  that  the  man,  stung  to  madness  by  the 
woman's  venomed  tongue,  might  be  driven  to  some 
rash  act,  fatal  to  them  both. 

She  looked,  shuddering,  from  one  to  the  other. 

It  was  terrible  to  see  so  fragile  a  creature  as 
Eusebie  in  the  power  of  such  a  tremendous  passion, 
that  seemed  as  if  it  must  shrivel  her  frame  as  a  cob 
web  in  a  flame.  But  it  was  more  terrible  to  see  in 
Marcel's  whole  aspect  the  chained  devil  that  might 
break  loose  in  destroying  frenzy  at  any  moment. 
Full  of  fear  and  horror,  the  child  crept  trembling 
to  the  man's  side,  put  her  arms  around  his  waist, 
which  she  could  just  reach,  looked  up  piteously  in 
his  face  and  whispered,  in  her  coaxing  tone : 

"Uncle,  uncle,  uncle." 

"My  little  angel,"  he  murmured  in  reply,  as  his 
stern  dark  face  softened  and  brightened. 

"Come  away  from  that  man  this  instant,  Gloria," 
cried  Eusebie,  stopping  in  her  wild  walk  and  stamp 
ing  with  fury.  "Come  away  from  him,  I  command 
you!  He  is  not  your  uncle!  You  shall  not  call 
him  uncle !  He  is  a  traitor  and  a  villain !  Come 
away,  I  say!" 

The  child  did  not  obey;  she  could  not  move;  she 
was  half  paralyzed  by  fear  and  horror,  and  more 
likely  to  sink  than  to  stand. 

The  man  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  drew  her 
closer  to  him. 

The  woman  stamped  with  fury. 

"Let  my  niece  go,  you  caitiff !"  she  screamed. 

He  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  lifted  his  head  and 
glared  at  her,  while  his  face  darkened  and  hardened. 


GLORIA  57 

The  terrified  child — terrified  for  others,  not  for 
herself — pressed  closely  to  him,  as  if,  in  extremity, 
she  would  hold  him  back  by  her  own  baby  strength, 
and  moaned,  coaxingly: 

"Uncle,  uncle,  uncle  dear." 

Again  his  face  changed;  he  stooped  towards  her 
and  she  laid  her  cheek  against  his  lips. 

"Come  away  from  that  man,  or  I  will  tear  you 
from  him !  He  is  not  your  uncle !  He  is  no  kin  to 
you !  He  is  nothing  to  you !  No !  I  thank  Heaven 
that  not  one  drop  of  his  false,  black  bood  runs  in  the 
veins  of  any  one  belonging  to  me !  I  have  not  even 
a  child!  Ha!  ha!  I  know  the  reason!  Fiends  are 
not  permitted  to  be  fathers!"  hissed  the  woman, 
with  all  the  hate  and  scorn  that  Satan  could  cast 
into  her  face  and  voice. 

Here  the  man's  eyes  glared  so  fiercely,  while  his 
brow  grew  so  black,  that  the  child  clasped  him  in  a 
frantic  clutch,  moaning,  inarticulately,  some  words 
of  piteous  deprecation  to  restrain  him. 

"Leave  that  wretch  this  instant,  I  command  you ! 
His  contact  is  infamy!  Am  I  not  to  be  obeyed? 
Oh,  then  I  will  snatch  you  from  him!"  screamed 
the  woman,  in  blind  fury,  as  she  sprang  towards 
them ;  but  he  was  too  quick  for  her. 

He  lifted  the  half-fainting  child  in  his  arms  and 
bore  her  swiftly  out  of  the  room. 

"Oh,  uncle,  she  is  crazy !  She  does  not  know  what 
she  says!  Don't  mind  her!  Don't  go  back  in  the 
room,"  coaxed  the  child,  as  she  put  up  her  hand 
and  stroked  and  patted  his  cheek.  "Uncle,  dear, 
don't  go  back  in  the  room !  Come  with  me  to  Granny 
Lindsay's  cottage.  Oh,  it  is  so  heavenly  there." 

But  now  the  man  paid  but  little  attention  to  what 
she  said.  He  pulled  the  bell-cord  violently. 


58  GLORIA 

'Phia  ran  to  answer  the  bell. 

"Take  this  child  up  to  her  bed-room,  and  stay 
with  her  until  she  goes  to  sleep,"  he  said,  placing 
the  little  girl  in  the  strong  arms  of  the  colored 
woman. 

"Oh,  uncle,  don't  go  back  to  that  room !  Don't, 
or  if  you  do,  take  me  with  you !"  pleaded  the  child, 
caressing'his  cheek  with  her  hand. 

"Go,  my  dear,  go  to  bed.  Pandemonium  is  no 
place  for  babies.  Leave  me  to  deal  with  that  de 
moniac,"  he  answered,  grimly,  as  he  turned  away. 

"Oh,  uncle,  don't  mind  her !  She  don't  know  what 
she  says!"  pleaded  the  child,  stretching  out  her 
hands  imploringly  towards  him. 

But  he  had  re-entered  the  room  and  clapped  the 
door  to  behind  him. 

Gloria  slid  from  the  woman's  arms,  sat  down  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Come  to  bed,  honey.  Don't  sit  there  crying.  You 
can't  do  no  good  by  dat.  You  can't  'vent  de  debbil 
from  habbin'  his  own  way  dis  night,"  said  'Phia. 

"Oh,  I  know — I  know — I  know!"  sobbed  the 
child. 

"Well,  den,  come  along  up  to  bed,  and  I'll  stay 
'long  ob  you  for  company." 

"Oh,  I  can't— I  can't— I  can't— I'm  so  'fraid.  Let 
me  sit  here  and  wait " 

"Wait  for  what?" 

"Oh,  till  uncle  comes  out,  or  one  of  them  does. 
Oh,  I  couldn't  go  to  bed !  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep  and 
leave  them  so!  Hush!"  suddenly  exclaimed  the 
child,  breaking  off  in  her  talk,  and  bending  forward 
her  head  and  straining  her  sense  in  fearful  atten 
tion,  as  she  heard  her  uncle's  voice  in  low,  tense,  bit- 


GLORIA  59 

ter  tones,  and  then  her  aunt's  hissing  tongue  in 
reply. 

The  child  clasped  her  hands  in  a  piteous,  helpless 
agony  of  prayer. 

"Come,  come,  honey,  come  up  to  bed,  and  I  will 
sit  by  you  and  tell  you  pretty  stories  about  foxes 
and  hares,  and  dwarfs  and  giants,  and  little  pigs 
and  things,  like  I  used  to  do,"  said  'Phia. 

"Hush!"  exclaimed  the  child,  starting  forward, 
with  staring  eyes,  as  the  voices  in  the  closed  room 
sunk  lower  and  became  more  bitter,  intense  and 
hissing. 

"Come,  come,  honey,  you  must  come  to  bed. 
'Tain't  right  to  be  listening,  nohow !"  expostulated 
Sophia,  in  virtuous  indignation. 

"Oh !  I  know  it  is  not !  I  know  it  is  not !  And  I 
can't  hear  a  word  they  say.  I  only  want  to  know — 

want  to  know Oh!  I'm  so  afraid!  I'm  so 

afraid,  'Phia!"  gasped  the  child,  shuddering  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  'Fraid  o'  what?" 

"Oh!  'fraid  of  something  happening!"  panted  the 
little  girl. 

"You  can't  help  of  what  happens,  so  what's  the 
use  o'  bein'  afeard?" 

At  that  moment  the  voices  in  the  closed  room 
arose,  both  speaking  together  in  violent,  clashing 
frenzy. 

"Oh,  'Phia !  Let's  go  in !  Let's  go  in  and  stand 
between  them !"  pleaded  the  child,  springing  up. 

"Who? — me?  No,  I  thank  you,  honey!  I'm 
spunky  enough,  but  I  ain't  gwine  to  part  a  wolf 
from  a  wildcat,  dere !" 

"Then  I  will !  I  will !"  cried  the  brave  child,  run 
ning  and  flinging  herself  against  the  closed  door; 


60  GLORIA 

but  it  was  locked  fast,  and  resisted  all  her  efforts, 
while  the  angry  voices  within  clashed  together  in 
rage. 

Suddenly  one  voice  arose  above  the  other,  with 
the  roar  of  an  infuriated  wild  beast.  It  was  her 
uncle's  voice.  It  cried: 

"DIE,  then !  and  end  it  all !" 

There  was  a  heavy  fall  and  groan. 

With  a  shriek  of  horror  Gloria  arose  and  fled  to 
the  negro  woman  and  buried  her  face  in  her  bosom. 

The  next  instant  the  door  was  suddenly  unlocked 
and  thrown  open,  and  Marcellus  de  Crespigney — 
his  face  haggard,  his  eyes  starting,  his  hair  bris 
tling — ran  out,  tore  open  the  hall  door  and  rushed 
from  the  house  out  into  the  winter  night. 

"I  must  go  see  what's  happened,"  hastily  mut 
tered  the  black  woman,  in  a  voice  full  of  awe.  as 
she  put  the  child  off  her  knee  and  went  toward  the 
sitting-room. 

Gloria,  tottering,  moaning,  sobbing  piteously, 
followed. 

The  long  room  was  silent  and  almost  dark,  for 
the  candles  had  not  been  called  for,  and  there  was 
no  light  except  from  the  smouldering  logs  of  the 
fire  in  the  open  chimney. 

Fallen  on  a  rug  before  this  fire,  lay  a  white  form. 

Sophia  stooped  to  look  at  it,  and  instantly 
started  up  in  horror,  crying  out : 

"Lord  have  mercy  upon  us!  He  has  killed  her! 
Marster  has  murdered  inist'ess!" 

HE  HAD! 

There  in  a  little  pool  of  her  own  blood,  lay  the 
small,  white  face  of  Eusebie,  with  its  eyes  wide 
open  and  glazed. 

She  was  quite  dead. 


GLORIA  61 

CHAPTER  V 

REMORSE 

And  well  we  know  your  tenderness  of  heart 
And  gentle,  deep,  compassionate  remorse. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

FILLED  with  horror,  that  subdued  all  outward 
show  of  emotion,  the  old  black  woman  lifted  the 
light  form  of  her  mistress  and  bore  it  across  the 
room  to  the  lounge. 

Overcome  with  grief  and  terror,  the  child  fol 
lowed  her,  shaking  as  with  a  hard  ague  fit. 

'Phia  laid  the  fast-stiffening  body  down  on  the 
couch  and  straightened  the  limbs,  and  drew  the 
white  dress  down  to  the  small,  rigid  feet. 

Little  Gloria  stood  by,  clasping  the  woman's 
skirts,  and  crying  and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
burst. 

When  'Phia  had  decently  composed  the  small 
body,  she  went  to  the  bell  and  rang  it  sharply,  then 
she  turned  the  key  of  the  door  and  came  back  to 
her  post. 

She  gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  poor,  dead  face, 
and  then  tenderly  closed  the  eyes,  keeping  her 
fingers  and  thumb  lightly  pressed  on  the  white  lids. 

Some  one  came  running  swiftly  along  the  pas 
sage  outside,  tried  the  lock,  and  then  rapped. 

'Phia  went  and  unlocked  the  door,  holding  it  a 
few  inches  apart,  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  the 
new-comer. 

There  were  but  three  servants  in  that  reduced  es- 


62  GLORIA 

tablishment— 'Phia,  her  husband  Laban,  and  her 
daughter  Lamia, 

It  was  the  latter  who  had  come  to  answer  the  bell. 

"What  does  yer  want,  mammy  ?"  inquired  the 
girl,  seeing  that  her  mother  barred  her  farther 
progress. 

"You  tell  your  daddy  to  run  here  right  off.  No 
nonsense,  now;  not  to  'lay  a  minute,  but  to  run 
here  right  off !  Yer  hear  me,  don't  yer?" 

"Yes,  mammy;  but  daddy  done  gone  'way  in  de 
boat  to  Sinnigger's." 

"Whey?"  sharply  demanded  the  woman. 

"To  Sinnigger's,  mammy." 

"What  he  done  gone  dere  for,  when  he  wanted  so 
bad  here?" 

"Marster  done  sent  him  dere  arter  de  doctor. 
Marster  come  a-rabin'  out  to  de  quarter,  just  now, 
like  he  gone  rip  stabin'  mad,  an'  say  how  mist'ess 
wer'  took  berry  ill,  an'  he  hauled  off  daddy  down 
to  de  landin'  to  start  him  off  to  Sinnigger's  arter  de 
doctor.  Is  mist'ess  dat  bad,  sure  'nough?" 

"Hum!  Sent  arter  de  doctor,  eh?  No  use  send 
arter  de  doctor  now.  Set  a  house  afire,  an'  den 
run  for  a  gourd  o'  water  to  put  it  out !  Hum !  Dat 
a  blind!"  muttered  'Phia. 

"Is  mist'ess  so  berry  bad?"  inquired  the  girl. 

"So  yer  daddy's  gone  to  Sinnigger's.  Whey's 
yer  marster?" 

"Marster  done  gone  down  to  de  boat  landin'  to 
hurry  daddy  off,  I  telled  you  before,  mammy.  But, 
say,  is  mist'ess  bad  as  all  dat  conies  to?"  inquired 
the  girl  for  the  third  time. 

"It  ain't  none  o'  your  business!  You  go  right 
straight  down  de  kitchen  and  put  on  a  kettle  ob 


GLORIA  63 

water  to  heat,"  replied  the  woman,  closing  the  door 
on  her  daughter. 

"Sent  for  de  doctor !  Hum.  Dat  piece  ob  'cep- 
tion  ain't  a-gwine  to  do  no  good.  Lord,  Lord,  did 
I  ebber  expect  to  lib  to  see  dis  awful  day?  Dough 
I  hab  offen  an'  offen  prophesied  as  how  murder 
would  be  done  in  dis  forsak,  unlawful  house,  did 
I  ebber  expect  as  it  would  come  to  pass?  He's  done 
it,  an7  he'll  sure  to  be  hung,  an'  den  what  is  to  come 
ob  de  place?  O-o-m-me,"  groaned  the  woman,  as 
she  returned  to  her  post  of  duty. 

At  these  dreadful  words,  the  voice  of  the  child, 
that  had  sunk  into  low  sobs,  now  arose  in  wails  of 
anguish. 

The  next  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open  and 
Marcellus  de  Crespigney  hurried  into  the  room, 
haggard,  ghastly,  with  distended  eyeballs  and  dis 
heveled  hair.  After  rapidly  glancing  around  the 
room,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  form  lying  on  the 
lounge,  and  he  hurried  up  to  it,  breathing  hard,  as 
he  put  the  questions: 

"How  is  she?    How  is  she?    Better?" 

The  appalled  woman  silently  moved  aside  and 
the  child  crouched  down  upon  the  floor  and  made 
room  for  him. 

He  stooped  anxiously  over  the  rigid  form,  looked 
deeply  into  the  marble  face  and  uttered  a  cry  which 
those  that  heard  never  forgot  in  all  their  after  life. 

Then  dashing  his  hand  violently  against  his  fore 
head,  he  flung  himself  down  by  the  couch,  and 
dropped  his  head  upon  the  cold  breast  of  his  wife, 
wailing  forth : 

"Dead!  Dead!  Dead!  And  I  have  killed  her! 
I,  a  murderer,  most  accursed !" 

He  was  totally  unconscious  of  the  sobbing  child 


64  GLORIA 

at  his  feet,  or  the  frowning  woman  who  stood  with 
folded  arms,  like  a  black  Nemesis,  at  his  back.  He 
had  eyes  for  neither — for  nothing  but  the  lifeless 
form  before  him. 

Gazing  on  her,  pressing  his  lips  to  her  cold  brow, 
again  and  again,  he  broke  into  the  most  violent 
lamentations,  the  most  awful  self-accusations. 

Then  hiding  his  head  in  the  folds  of  her  raiment, 
he  groaned  aloud  and  seemed  to  swoon  into  silence. 

Again,  with  an  accession  of  frenzy,  he  started  up 
and  began  striding  to  and  fro,  from  end  to  end  of 
the  long  room,  uttering  the  most  agonized  self-re 
proaches,  and  calling  down  the  most  horrible  male 
dictions  upon  his  own  head. 

This  terrible  scene  went  on  until  at  last  the  weep 
ing  child,  her  heart  half  broken  with  grief  for  her 
who  was  beyond  suffering,  and  for  him  who  still 
suffered,  arose  from  her  crouching  position  and 
dried  her  tears  and  tried  to  still  her  sobs,  and  went 
to  the  maddened  man,  as  he  raged  up  and  down 
the  floor,  invoking  imprecations  on  his  own  head. 

She  came  behind  him,  pleading  in  her  pitiful 
tones: 

"Oh,  uncle,  do  not  curse  yourself !  Pray !  The 
Lord  is  merciful  I"  And  she  put  her  little  hand  out 
to  touch  his. 

Then  he  whirled  around  upon  her  like  a  furious 
wind,  his  eyes  flashing  lightnings  of  frenzy,  his 
voice  thundering: 

"Avaunt !  Begone !  Let  no  innocent  thing  come 
near  me!" 

The  child  turned  and  fled  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  lap  of  Sophia,  who  was  now  seated  by  the  dead 
body  of  her  mistress. 


GLORIA  65 

"Let  me  take  you  to  bed,  little  Glo',"  whispered 
the  woman. 

"No — no,"  sobbed  the  aggrieved  and  terrified 
child.  "No — no.  I  want  to  stay  near  him!  I — I 
want  to  stay  near  him!" 

Three  dreadful  hours  passed  in  this  way,  with 
little  change. 

Sophia  sat  near  the  head  of  the  lounge,  keeping 
constant  watch  over  the  corpse. 

Little  Gloria  crouched  on  the  floor  at  her  feet, 
with  her  head  hidden  in  the  old  woman's  lap. 

Marcellus  de  Crespigney  raged  up  and  down  the 
floor,  breathing  maledictions  upon  himself,  or  he 
dropped  down  before  the  dead  body  of  his  wife, 
uttering  awful  groans  or  lapsing  into  more  awful 
silence. 

An  hour  after  midnight  there  came  a  sound  of 
footsteps,  crunching  through  the  frozen  snow,  and 
followed  by  an  alarm  on  the  iron  knocker  at  the 
front  door,  which  announced  the  arrival  of  Dr. 
Prout,  the  physician  of  St.  Inigoes. 

De  Crespigney,  almost  exhausted  by  the  long  con 
tinued  violence  of  his  emotions,  was  now  calm  with 
the  calmness  of  prostration  and  despair. 

"Nothing  serious  the  matter,  I  hope!"  said  the 
cordial  voice  of  the  doctor,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
ushered  by  Laban,  and  met  by  Colonel  de  Crespi 
gney,  who  advanced  to  receive  him. 

The  physician  of  St.  Inigoes  was  a  short,  stout, 
round-bodied  little  old  man,  with  a  bald  head,  a 
smooth  face,  cheery  voice  and  manner,  He  was  al 
ways  dressed  in  speckless  black  from  head  to  foot. 

"Nothing  serious,  I  hope?  Only  one  of  madame's 
usual  nervous  attacks,  eh?"  he  cheerfully  de- 


66  GLORIA 

manded,  as  he  shook  hands  with  the  master  of  the 
house. 

"It  is  her  last  attack,  sir.  She  is  dead,"  answered 
De  Crespigney,  in  steady  tones. 

"Dead?  Lord  bless  my  soul,  I  am — I — dead,  do 
you  say?"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  in  surprise  and 
confusion. 

"Yes,  sir,  she  is  gone.    Come  and  see." 

"Lord  bless  my  soul,  I  am  very  much  shocked !" 
exclaimed  the  good  little  man,  as  he  followed  the 
bereaved  husband  to  the  lounge  on  which  the  body 
of  the  ill-fated  wife  lay. 

Old  Thia  lifted  the  white  handkerchief  that  cov 
ered  the  white  face,  arfd  then  withdrew  to  give  way 
to  her  master  and  the  doctor,  leading  the  trembling 
child  away  with  her. 

"How  did  this  happen  ?"  solemnly  inquired  the 
doctor,  as  he  gazed  down  on  the  waxen  face,  with 
the  stream  of  scarlet  blood  curdled  from  the  corner 
of  the  mouth  down  upon  the  chin  and  throat,  where 
it  lay  in  a  thick  cake. 

"Through  me.  I  killed  her,"  answered  De  Cres 
pigney,  in  the  same  dread  monotone  in  which  all  his 
answers  to  the  doctor's  questions  had  been  made. 

Dr.  Prout  turned  and  gazed  at  him  in  amazement 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said  gravely  and  kindly : 

"My  dear  friend,  this  shock  has  been  too  much 
for  you.  Compose  yourself.  This  unhappy  lady 
has  had  a  fatal  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs,  such  as  I 
feared  for  a  long  time  past;  such  as  I  warned  you 
might  be  the  result  of  any  unusual  excitement." 

"Just  so,  you  warned  me,  yet  I  killed  her." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  in  a  great  trouble,  then 
replaced  the  handkerchief  over  the  quiet  face  of  the 


GLORIA  67 

dead,  and  taking  his  arm  led  him  to  a  distant  sofa, 
placed  him  on  it,  took  the  seat  beside  him,  and  said : 

"De  Crespigney,  you  must  not  say  such  false 
things  about  yourself.  Think  what  the  effect  upon 
other  minds  may  be." 

"They  are  not  false;  they  are  true.  Listen  to  me, 
Dr.  Prout.  You  know  you  warned  me  that  excite 
ment  might  prove  fatal  to  my  unhappy  wife." 

"Yes." 

"You  know  how  prone  she  was  to  excitement. 
You  knew  her  delicate  health  and  her  extreme  ner 
vous  irritability?" 

"I  knew  the  weakness  of  her  lungs  and  the  vio 
lence  of  her  temper.  I  knew  all  that,  Colonel  de 
Crespigney,  before  you  ever  saw  her  face." 

"Let  that  pass,"  said  Marcel,  waving  his  hand 
impatiently.  "You  warned  me  against  the  danger 
of  excitement  for  her.  I  was  not  man  enough  to 
heed  your  warning  in  her  behalf.  I  have  been 
frenzied  to-night,  Dr.  Prout.  But  attend!  This 
evening  I  irritated  her,  excited,  taunted,  maddened, 
murdered  her!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Colonel.    Oh,  tut,  tut,  tut!" 

"But  hear  me!  I  must  tell  some  one.  Oh,  this 
necessity  of  confession — this  afternoon  a  dispute 
arose  between  us,  indeed  I  know  not  how — I  should 
have  calmed,  soothed,  conciliated  her,  knowing  how 
dangerous  was  excitement  to  that  poor,  fragile 
being!  But  I  did  not.  When  she  accused  me,  I 
recriminated;  when  she  reproached  me,  I  retorted. 
'One  word  brought  on  another/  as  the  people  say. 
She  grew  frantic  and  knew  not  what  she  said,  I  do 
verily  believe.  Yet  her  words  stung  me  to  frenzy, 
and,  forgetting  my  manhood,  I — I " 

Here  Marcel  de  Crespigney's  voice  broke,  and  he 


68  GLORIA 

covered  his  brow  with  his  hand  and  dropped  his 
head  upon  his  breast  with  a  look  of  unutterable 
shame. 

"You  never  could  have  raised  your  hand  against 
your  wife,  De  Crespigney?"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
in  a  harsh  voice,  and  shrinking  away  from  his  com 
panion. 

Up  went  the  fine  head,  and  wide  open  with  as 
tonishment  at  such  a  question  the  splendid  eyes,  as 
Marcel  replied: 

"Who — I?  I  raise  my  hand  against  that  poor 
little,  fragile  being?  I  raise  my  hand  against  any 
woman?  I  may  be  a  devil,  Dr.  Prout,  but  I  am  not 
— a — what  would  you  call  a  man  who  would  strike 
a  woman  anyway?  I  am  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Pardon  me  the  base  thought,  De  Crespigney.  It 
was  but  a  passing  thought  Scarcely  that  indeed. 
But  what  do  you  mean,  then,  by  your  self-accusa 
tions,  my  poor  friend?" 

"I  killed  her  all  the  same.  If  I  did  not  strike 
with  my  hand,  I  struck  with  the  poisoned  arrow 
of  the  tongue.  Is  any  serpent's  sting  so  venomous 
as  the  tongue?  Her  tongue  had  stung  me  to  frenzy. 
She  accused  me,  poor,  wrong-headed  child  that  she 
was,  she  accused  me  of  marrying  her  for  money,  for 
this  miserable,  sterile  promontory,  with  its  ruinous 
house  and  worthless  land.  I  retorted  by  telling  her 
I  married  her  for  pity.  Yes!"  cried  Marcel,  sud 
denly  starting  up,  and  striding  to  and  fro  with  ris 
ing  excitement,  "yes,  villain!  caitiff!  cur  that  I 
was,  I  told  my  wife — I  told  that  delicate  and  sen 
sitive  creature  that  I  had  married  her  only  for  pity ! 
And  worse,  far  worse  than  that,  I  saw  her  pale  face 
grow  scarlet  at  my  cruel,  shameful  words,  then, 
white  as  death,  as  she  sank  upon  a  chair  and  placed 


GLORIA  69 

her  hand  upon  her  chest.    I  did  not  care.    The  devil 
had  possession  of  me. 

"  'You  will  kill  me,'  she  gasped. 

"  'DiE,  then,  and  end  it  all !'  I  answered,  brutally, 
for  I  half  suspected  she  was  acting  all  this  illness. 
But  the  next  instant  she  fell  heavily  forward,  with 
the  blood  welling  from  her  throat." 

"Gracious  Heaven !"  murmured  the  doctor  in  a 
low  tone. 

"I  remembered  what  you  had  warned  me  to  do  in 
case  of  such  an  emergency.  I  went  and  laid  her 
down  on  the  rugs  quietly,  and  then  ran  out  and  dis 
patched  a  servant  for  you.  In  ten  minutes  I  was 
back  again  at  her  side,  but — she  was  gone." 

"I  came  the  very  moment  that  I  was  summoned, 
but  the  way  was  long,"  said  the  doctor. 

"You  could  have  done  no  good,  as  it  turned  out, 
even  if  you  had  been  in  the  house.  The  fault  was 
mine.  I  killed  her !  I  killed  the  poor  little  fragile 
woman,  whose  only  fault  was  to  love  me  too  well, 
too  jealously,  too  exactingly,  too  insanely!"  ex 
claimed  De  Crespigney,  heaping  up  words  as  men 
will  do  under  any  strong  excitement.  "Yes,  I  killed 
my  delicate,  sensitive  wife !  I  killed  her  with  cruel, 
shameful,  unmanly  words.  Oh,  accursed  VILLAIN  !" 
he  cried,  smiting  his  forehead  with  a  violent  blow, 
as  he  strode  up  and  down  the  room. 

Dr.  Prout  went  up  to  him,  took  his  arm  and  drew 
it  within  his  own,  and  saying,  with  the  authority  of 
a  keeper  over  a  madman : 

"Come,  De  Crespigney,  you  must  go  with  me.  I 
am  going  to  take  you  off  to  bed  and  give  you  an 
opiate.  You,  Laban,  there!  Lead  the  way  to  your 
master's  chamber." 

Marcel,  whose  stormy  fits  of  0:110 lion  had  reduced 


70  GLORIA 

him  to  the  weakness  of  infancy,  submitted  himself 
to  be  led  from  the  room,  preceded  by  his  servant, 
Laban. 

Then  there  was  left  in  the  apartment  of  death, 
with  the  corpse,  the  old  watcher,  Sophia,  and  the 
child,  Gloria,  who  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  with 
her  head  on  the  black  woman's  lap. 

A  few  minutes  after  the  doctor  had  led  De  Cres- 
pigney  away,  however,  Lamia  softly  entered  the 
room  and  whispered: 

"The  hot  water  is  ready,  mammy." 

"Yes.  Well,  now  take  this  child  and  carry  her 
up  to  her  room,  and  undress  her  without  waking 
her,  if  possible,  and  put  her  to  bed.  But  if  she 
do  wake,  you  stay  with  her  till  she  goes  to  sleep 
again,  an'  then  you  come  down  here  an'  help  me. 
You  know  what's  happened  of  by  dis  time,  don't 
you?" 

"Oh,  yes;  mist'ess  hab  broken  a  blood-vessel,  an' 
'deed " 

"Yes !  Lord  forgive  me !  I  did  fink  by  de  way  he 
ran  on,  as  marster  had  done  it  hisself !  I  thanks 
my  Lord  it  wasn't  him,  and  dere'll  be  no  erow- 
ner's  quest,  nor  hanging!  Dere,  gal,  take  de  poor 
dear  chile  and  carry  her  to  bed.  Well,  poor 
mist'ess,  I  hopes  de  Lord  will  hab  messy  on  her 
soul !  Anyways,  dere  won't  be  no  more  quarrellin' 
an'  fightin'  an'  'fendin'  an'  provin'  an'  'spoundin' 
an'  'splainin'  in  de  house  to  drive  a  body  ravin', 
'stracted  mad.  Marse  ain't  'clined  to  quarrel  much 
hisself,  an'  if  he  was,  he  couldn't  quarrel  by  his 
self  'dout  some  one  else  to  help  him,"  growled  old 
'Phia,  as  she  lifted  the  child  and  laid  her,  still  sleep 
ing,  in  the  arms  of  Lamia. 

The  girl  took  the  exhausted  child  up  to  her  room, 


GLORIA  71 

undressed,  and  put  her  into  bed  without  awakening 
her. 

Once,  indeed,  the  poor  little  creature  half  waked 
as  she  was  finally  laid  on  her  pillow;  but  she  only 
sobbed  and  swooned  away  to  sleep. 

Lamia  stood  by  the  bed  watching  her  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  seeing  that  she  was  not  likely  to  wake 
for  hours  to  come,  left  the  chamber  and  went  down 
stairs  to  join  her  "mammy"  in  the  room  of  death. 

Together  they  washed  and  dressed  the  dead,  and 
laid  it  out  neatly  on  the  long  table  to  await  the 
undertaker.  Then  'Phia  lighted  a  couple  of  wax 
candles  and  placed  one  at  the  head  and  one  at  the 
foot. 

Lastly,  the  two  set  the  room  in  perfect  order,  re 
plenished  the  fire,  and  finally  took  up  their  posi 
tions,  sitting  one  on  the  right,  and  the  other  on  the 
left  of  the  body,  to  watch  until  daylight. 

Dr.  Prout  remained  all  night  with  his  sorrowing 
friend,  and  then,  after  an  early  breakfast  the  next 
morning,  departed  to  make,  at  the  request  of 
Colonel  de  Crespigney,  the  necessary  arrangements 
for  the  funeral. 

When  Marcel  de  Crespigney  re-entered  the  room 
of  death  he  found  it  filled  with  an  atmosphere  of 
repose  that  calmed  even  his  perturbed  spirit.  He 
went  to  the  table  and  turned  down  the  white  linen 
cover,  and  saw  the  face  of  the  dead  soothed  into  a 
peaceful  beauty  such  as  it  had  never  known  in  life. 
He  gazed  on  it  for  some  minutes,  and  then  stooped 
and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  cold,  quiet  brow  with 
more  tenderness  than  he  had  ever  kissed  the  living 
woman.  Then  he  reverently  covered  the  face  again, 
and  stole  silently  from  the  room. 

Little  Gloria  slept  the  deep  sleep  of  mental  and 


72  GLORIA 

physical  prostration.  She  did  not  wake  until  noon. 
Then  she  awoke  to  memory,  and  to  an  agony  of  grief 
that  refused  to  be  comforted. 

"And  not  a  lady  about  de  house  to  look  arter  de 
poor  chile!  Not  eben  a  white  'oman  anywhere  in 
reach.  An'  me  an'  Lamia  dat  oberloaded  with  work, 
along  ob  dis  dreadful  business!"  groaned  'Phia,  as 
she  trotted  from  chamber  to  parlor,  and  from  parlor 
to  kitchen  on  her  multifarious  duties. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  her  lamentations  she  met 
relief.  In  the  kitchen  she  found  David  Lindsay  and 
his  grandmother,  just  arrived,  and  waiting  to  see  if 
they  could  be  of  any  use. 

David,  on  coming  to  work  that  morning,  had  met 
Dr.  Prout  and  had  anxiously  inquired  if  any  one 
was  sick  at  the  "house,"  and  in  answer  had  received 
the  news  of  Madame  de  Crespigney's  death. 

Then  remembering  the  limited  resources  of  ser 
vice  in  that  small  and  isolated  household,  David, 
with  the  thoughtfulness  of  a  boy  who  had  long  had 
a  man's  responsibilities  on  his  own  young  shoulders, 
re-entered  his  boat  and  rowed  rapidly  across  to  the 
little  sandy  isle,  to  tell  his  grandmother,  and  even 
to  suggest  her  returning  with  him. 

The  gentle  old  dame  saw  even  more  clearly  than 
her  grandson  had  done,  the  need  they  had  of  her 
at  Promontory  Hall.  So  she  lost  no  time  in  get 
ting  ready  to  go,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  from 
the  moment  when  she  received  the  news,  she  stood 
in  Sophia's  kitchen,  earnestly  offering  her  services. 

"If  you'll  only  look  after  de  chile,  which  I  b'lieve 
you  is  a  great  favorite  'long  o'  her,  dat  is  all  as  I 
shall  ax  ob  you,"  said  'Phia. 

And  so  the  sweet  old  dame  "looked  after"  little 
Gloria,  and  comforted  her,  night  and  day,  during 


GLORIA  73 

the  three  days  that  preparations  for  the  funeral 
went  on. 

Meanwhile,  David  Lindsay  made  himself  useful 
in  many  ways  at  the  Hall  during  the  day,  and  at 
night  returned  to  the  little  isle  to  take  care  of  the 
house  in  the  absence  of  its  mistress. 

Often  Gloria  tried  to  see  and  console  her  stricken 
uncle ;  but  he  always  refused  to  have  her,  saying : 

"Let  all  innocent  beings  keep  aloof  from  me." 

Thus,  in  alternations  between  the  frenzy  of  re 
morse  and  the  stupor  of  despair,  Marcel  de  Oes- 
pigney  passed  the  interval  between  the  death  and 
burial  of  his  "murdered  wife,"  as,  in  his  morbid 
self-reproach,  he  called  her. 

"Words  kill !"  he  answered  to  the  expostulations 
of  his  friend,  the  doctor.  "Words  kill,  and  I  killed 
her  with  cruel  words!  The  last  words  I  spoke  to 
her — the  last  words  her  failing  senses  heard  from 
me — were  cruel,  murderous  words!  They  killed 
her!  What  though  no  law  can  drag  me  before  an 
earthly  tribunal  to  answer  for  her  life?  Before 
the  awful  judgment  seat  of  the  God  in  my  own  soul, 
I  stand  a  self-convicted  murderer!" 

The  good  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders,  reflect 
ing  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  argue  with  a  man  whose 
morbid  sensibility  made  him,  for  the  time  being, 
a  monomaniac. 

Marcel  de  Crespigney,  who  had  so  greatly  dis 
tinguished  himself  for  martial  courage  and  ability 
during  the  Mexican  war,  was  weaker  than  a  child 
where  his  sympathies  were  involved. 

This  weakness  had  betrayed  him  into  all  the 
misery  of  his  life.  It  had  drawn  him,  in  his  early 
youth,  into  a  marriage  with  a  plain,  sickly,  faded 
.woman,  who  loved  him  with  that  morbid,  exclusive, 


74  GLORIA 

absorbing  passion  that,  disappointed,   sometimes 
sends  its  victim  to  the  madhouse  or  the  grave. 

He  had  married  her — let  the  truth  be  here  told — 
from  the  promptings  of  compassion  alone.  He  had 
given  her  all  that  he  had  to  give — sympathy,  ten 
derness,  service.  But  this  was  not  love — not  the 
love  she  craved  and  missed.  Hence  came  humilia 
tion,  morbid  brooding,  and  the  monomania  that 
turned  all  his  kindly  acts  and  motives  into  outrage 
and  offence. 

Had  children  blessed  their  union,  and  so  divided 
her  thoughts  and  affections,  or  had  they — the  hus 
band  and  wife — though  childless,  lived  in  a  city, 
where  society  must  have  claimed  some  of  her  at 
tention,  and  taught  her  something  of  life,  she  might 
have  been  much  healthier  in  mind  and  body,  and 
their  marriage  might  have  been  happier. 

But  in  the  drear  solitude  of  Promontory  Hall, 
with  no  children  to  fondle,  no  society  but  that  of 
the  studious,  intellectual  man  whom  she  vainly  and 
madly  loved,  there  could  have  been  but  one  of  two 
results  for  her — madness  or  death.  The  most  mer 
ciful  of  the  two  was  hers. 

But  it  was  also  impossible  that  De  Crespigney's 
mind,  under  all  these  circumstances,  should  have 
retained  its  healthy  tone,  or  that  his  long  patience 
should  not  have  at  last  become  exhausted,  so  that 
in  one  moment  of  unexampled  exasperation  he  lost 
the  self  control  of  years  and  told  her  the  truth — 
the  truth,  not  "in  love,"  but  in  wrath  and  scorn, 
that  had  slain  her. 

Now  he  would  not  seek  to  palliate  his  fault  or 
justify  himself.  He  would  not  remember  the 
jealousy,  the  violence,  the  acrimony  with  which  she 
had  driven  him  to  frenzy ;  he  would  only  remember 


GLORIA  75 

her  strong  love  for  him  and  his  secret  indifference 
to  her,  and  his  deeply  sympathetic,  compassionate 
and  conscientious  spirit  suffered  pangs  of  remorse 
that  would  seem  to  others  morbid,  excessive  and 
unjustifiable. 

On  the  fifth  day  following  the  catastrophe,  the 
remains  of  Eusebie  de  Crespigney  were  placed  in  an 
elegant  rosewood  casket  and  conveyed  by  boat  to 
the  little  Gothic  chapel  on  La  Compte's  Landing, 
where  they  were  met  by  a  small  number  of  old 
friends  and  neighbors,  and  where,  after  the  re 
ligious  services  were  over,  they  were  consigned  to 
the  family  vault  under  the  chancel. 

Immediately  after  the  funeral,  Marcel  de  Cres 
pigney  utterly  broke  down  and  fell  ill  of  a  brain 
fever. 

Dr.  Prout,  taking  authority  on  himself  in  the 
household  anarchy,  installed  Mrs.  Lindsay  as  nurse, 
and  wrote  to  his  family. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MISS   GRIP 

She  is  active,  stirring,  all  fire, 
Cannot  rest,  cannot  tire. 

BROWNING. 

WITHIN  ten  days  after  the  despatch  of  the  doc 
tor's  letter  it  was  answered  in  person  by  the 
colonel's  maiden  aunt,  who,  after  many  misadven 
tures,  reached  Promontory  Hall  in  the  afternoon  of 
a  very  bitter  cold  January  day. 

Miss  Agrippina  de  Crespigney,   called  by   her 


76  GLORIA 

familiars  Miss  Grip,  was  a  slight,  wiry  little 
woman,  with  a  dark  skin,  sharp  nose  and  chin, 
small,  keen,  brilliant  black  eyes,  tightly  curled, 
bright  black  hair,  and  a  trim  figure,  clothed  in  a 
close  black  cashmere  gown,  with  stiff  white  linen 
collar  and  cuffs — a  tough  little  body  she  was,  whose 
sixty  years  of  life's  hard  buffeting  had  not  seemed 
to  have  saddened,  weakened  or  in  any  other  way 
aged,  but  rather  matured,  hardened  and  strength 
ened. 

For  now,  in  the  very  depth  of  one  of  the  hardest 
winters  that  ever  was  known  here,  she  had  under 
taken  an  arduous  journey  of  more  than  twelve  hun 
dred  miles,  from  the  green  savannahs  of  the 
"Sunny  South"  to  the  frozen  regions  of  the  icy 
North,  traveling  without  rest,  both  day  and  night, 
by  railroads,  stage-coaches,  and  tavern  hacks,  and 
at  length  arrived  at  her  destination,  none  the  worse 
for  her  performance,  without  showing  the  slightest 
sign  of  suffering  from  cold  or  from  fatigue. 

The  last  half -day  of  her  hard  week's  journey  had 
been  peculiarly  trying.  She  had  reached  St.  Inigoes 
by  stage-coach,  early  in  the  morning.  After  a  hasty 
breakfast  she  had  started  in  the  springless  carryall 
belonging  to  the  inn,  for  the  Promontory.  When 
she  reached  the  shore  she  had  to  wait  hours  there 
for  the  tide  to  ebb  before  she  could  cross  over  the 
neck  of  land  that  connected  the  island  cape  to  the 
main. 

Even  then  the  passage  was  difficult  and  danger 
ous  from  the  piled  up  blocks  of  ice  that  lay  across 
the  road. 

"I  really  thought  that  I  was  coming  to  a  habit 
able  part  of  the  globe,  at  least;  but  this  is  Nova 
Zembla!  Just  Nova  Zembla  and  nothing  else!  A 


GLORIA  77 

waste  fragment  of  a  continent,  flung  out  as  useless 
into  an  arctic  sea !"  said  Miss  Grip,  as  the  old  car 
riage  pitched  and  tumbled  along  the  narrow  ice-en 
cumbered  isthmus  towards  the  snow-clad  promon 
tory. 

"I  hab  lieern  it  called  a  many  hard  names.  Miss, 
but  I  nebber  heered  it  called  Dissemblance  afore," 
replied  the  negro  driver. 

"Well,  then,  hold  your  tongue  and  mind  your 
horses,  or  you'll  upset  me,"  rather  irrelevantly  con 
cluded  Miss  Grip. 

When  the  rickety  carryall  drew  up  before  the 
old  iron  gate  in  the  old  stone  wall  that  enclosed  the 
stern-looking  gray-stone  house,  Miss  Grip  gave 
voice  once  more. 

"Is  it  a  police-station,  or  a  penitentiary,  or  a 
warehouse,  or  a  fort,  or  something  of  the  sort? 
This  never  was  meant  for  a  gentleman's  private 
residence." 

But  she  did  not  even  wait  to  cross  the  threshold 
before  she  seized  the  reins  of  government.  As  soon 
as  she  alighted  from  the  carryall  she  began  to  issue 
her  orders  to  the  driver. 

"Take  the  carriage  around  to  the  stables — of 
course  there  are  stables  and  you  must  find  them— 
put  up  the  carriage,  feed  and  water  the  horses,  then 
come  around  to  the  kitchen.  You  must  get  your 
supper  before  you  go  back.  Stop!  take  my  trunk 
oft'  first  and  bring  it  up  into  the  house." 

The  driver  began  to  obey  these  orders  as  the  brisk 
little  woman  ran  up  the  steps  and  sounded  an  alarm 
on  the  iron  knocker. 

Laban  opened  the  door,  and  the  driver  carried  in 
the  trunk  and  put  it  down  on  the  hall  floor  and  de 
parted  about  his  other  business. 


78  GLORIA 

"How  is  your  master?"  sharply  demanded  Miss 
Grip  of  the  astonished  negro. 

"Jes'  de  same,"  replied  the  man,  as  if  the  answer 
had  been  rapped  out  of  him. 

"How  the  same?" 

"Onsensible." 

Miss  Grip  immediately  took  off  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  flung  them  on  the  hat-rack,  saying : 

"Show  me  the  way  up  through  this  old  jail  to  the 
den  where  your  master  lies." 

The  man  looked  daggers  at  the  insolent  little 
woman,  but  he  obeyed  her,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
spacious  upper  chamber  where  the  patient  lay, 
watched  by  old  Mrs.  Lindsay  and  patient  little  Glo'. 

Miss  Agrippina  nodded  silently  to  the  nurse,  then 
kissed  the  child  and  sent  her  out  of  the  room,  say 
ing  that  a  sick  room  was  no  wholesome  place  for  a 
little  girl. 

Now  that  Miss  De  Crespigney  had  come  to  take 
her  proper  place  at  the  bedside  of  her  suffering 
nephew,  good  Mrs.  Lindsay  found  herself  at  liberty 
to  return  home  and  look  after  her  own  little  affairs. 

The  child  wept  at  parting  with  her  old  friend, 
and  said : 

"I  know  there  is  no  work  to  do  at  the  landing 
while  all  this  snow  and  ice  is  piled  up  everywhere; 
but,  oh,  do  please  to  send  David  Lindsay  to  see  me 
sometimes.  I  shall  be  so  lonesome  when  you  are 
gone." 

The  gentle  old  dame  promised  to  do  so,  and  went 
away  to  look  for  Laban  to  row  her  over  to  the  little 
isle. 

This  though  a  very  short,  was  not  always  a  very 
safe  trip,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  when  floating 
blocks  of  ice  endangered  the  little  boat,  and  it  was 


GLORIA  79 

only  by  watchfulness  and  skill  that  it  was  ever  ac 
complished  safely. 

From  that  hour  Miss  Grip  administered  the  gov 
ernment  of  Promontory  Hall. 

She  was  an  accomplished  nurse  and  housekeeper, 
and  not  at  all  an  unkindly  woman,  notwithstanding 
her  quick  ways.  She  held  a  consultation  with  the 
doctor  on  his  next  visit,  and  learned  from  him  the 
facts  of  the  case,  of  which  she  would  not  inquire  of 
the  servants  or  even  permit  them  to  speak. 

"It  was  the  most  unhappy  marriage  I  ever  heard 
of.  But  then  I  always  knew  Marcel  would  make  a 
mess  of  it,"  was  her  only  comment  on  the  story. 

Then  she  devoted  herself  to  her  sick  nephew,  who, 
in  his  delirium,  was  always  holding  imaginary  con 
versations  with  his  lost  wife,  and  sealing  a  recon 
ciliation,  such  as  in  the  past  had  always  followed 
one  of  their  quarrels. 

Even  Miss  Grip  would  sometimes  smile  and  some 
times  weep  to  hear  him  say : 

"I  know  it,  my  dear.  I  knew  you  did  not  mean 
all  that  you  said.  I  knew  you  were  excited.  Yes,  I 
know,  for  all  that,  you  love  me,  Eusebie.  There, 
say  no  more  about  it,  dear.  Let  us  try  to  forget 
it,7'  and  so  forth,  for  hours,  until  exhaustion  and 
stupor  would  follow. 

It  was  a  long  illness.  The  February  thaw  had 
come  and  melted  the  "iceberg,"  as  Miss  Grip  called 
the  snow-clad  promontory,  before  Marcel  de  Cres- 
pigney  passed  the  crisis  of  his  fever,  and  then  he 
was  so  weak  in  mind  as  well  as  body  that  another 
month  passed  away  before  he  had  gradually  recov 
ered  strength  enough  to  sit  up  in  his  easy-chair  and 
converse  a  little. 

Next,  when  he  was  able  to  bear  a  sustained  dis- 


80  GLORIA 

course,  he  gave  Miss  Grip  his  own  version  of  the 
fatal  quarrel  that  had  precipitated  the  catastrophe, 
not  sparing  himself  in  the  least,  but  heaping  bitter 
reproaches  upon  his  own  head,  as  he  had  done  from 
the  first. 

"Yet,"  said  Miss  Agrippina,  "I  cannot  see  that 
you  were  so  much  to  blame.  But,  in  any  case,  it  is 
of  no  use  to  look  back.  All  that  you  can  do  now  is 
to  atone  in  the  future  for  what  you  have  done  amiss 
in  the  past.  She  has  left  you  no  child  of  her  own ; 
but  she  has  left  a  little  niece  whom  she  loved.  Be  a 
good  father  to  that  orphan." 

"I  will  do  so,"  answered  De  Crespigney,  very 
meekly. 

"And  now,  Marcel,  take  my  advice:  Whatever 
else  you  do,  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself  again  by 
getting  married.  Such  a  bookworm  as  you  has  no 
business  with  a  wife.  So,  don't  be  a  foci." 

"I  will  not,"  sighed  the  colonel,  obediently. 

When  he  grew  stronger  still  he  sent  for  the  little 
portable  cabinet  in  which  his  lost  wife  was  accus 
tomed  to  keep  her  papers,  and  he  had  it  placed  upon 
a  stand  between  his  easy-chair  and  the  open  wood 
fire,  and  he  went  through  her  letters,  with  the  in 
tention  of  burning  all  of  them,  lest  they  should  by 
unforeseen  accident  fall  into  other  hands. 

And  here  he  found  what  newly  awoke  his  grief 
and  his  remorse.  It  was  her  last  will,  duly  drawn 
up,  signed,  sealed,  and  witnessed,  in  which  she  be 
queathed  to  him  the  whole  of  her  real  and  personal 
estate.  Folded  in  with  this  document  was  a  letter, 
dated  some  time  back,  and  addressed  to  her  hus 
band,  to  be  opened  after  her  death.  It  seemed  to 
have  been  written  just  after  one  of  their  fierce  quar 
rels  and  sorrowful  reconciliations.  In  it  she  wrote : 


GLORIA  81 

"I  feel  that  some  day  I  shall  die  suddenly  in  some 
one  of  my  mad  fits  of  excitement.  I  feel  that  when 
that  shall  have  happened  without  time  for  recon 
ciliation,  I  shall  want  to  speak  to  you  from  the 
other  life.  I  shall  want  to  reach  my  hand  across 
the  great  gulf  that  will  divide  us  and  be  reconciled 
to  you  from  the  other  life.  But  that  may  not  be  my 
privilege,  so  I  write  to  you  now,  and  leave  writh 
you,  for  that  time,  what  I  feel  that  I  shall  want  to 
say  to  you  then." 

And  here  followed  a  most  pathetic  plea  for  a 
charitable  construction  of  her  confessed  infirmities 
of  temper  and  a  prayer  for  the  merciful  remem 
brance  of  her  love.  She  said  not  one  word  about 
the  will  she  had  made  securing  all  her  property  to 
him ;  she  was  silent  on  that  subject,  as  if  she  thought 
it  of  little  importance  compared  to  the  theme  upon 
which  she  wrote,  her  own  morbid,  maddened  af 
fections. 

The  letter  so  agitated  the  convalescent  that  he 
suffered  a  relapse  of  several  days'  duration. 

As  the  spring  advanced,  however,  he  improved  in 
health,  strength  and  spirits.  The  season  was  early 
that  year,  so  that  by  the  middle  of  March  every 
vestige  of  ice  and  snow  had  disappeared,  and  by  the 
first  of  April  the  fields  were  green  with  grass  and 
the  trees  blossoming  for  fruit.  And  then  Marcel  de 
Crespigney  was  able  to  sit  out  on  the  front  porch 
and  enjoy  the  resurrection  of  nature  with  a  new 
sense  of  life. 

Meanwhile  the  business  on  the  fishing  landing 
was  opening  briskly,  and,  among  other  workmen, 
David  Lindsay  found  a  plenty  to  do,  patching  boats 
and  mending  nets  and  clearing  beaches. 


82  GLORIA 

Again  little  Gloria  went  daily  down  to  the  old 
sea  wall  and  sat  and  read  to  her  playmate  while  he 
mended  old  seines  or  netted  new  ones.  She  read  to 
him  the  school  histories  of  Rome,  Greece  and  Eng 
land,  while  the  hungry  mind  of  the  boy  swallowed 
and  assimilated  them  all. 

Under  the  shadow  of  the  old  sea  wall  the  life  of 
the  children  was  an  idyl  in  Arcadie  until  one  un 
happy  day,  when  their  innocent  affection  fell  under 
the  notice  of  Miss  Agrippina  de  Crespigney,  and 
shocked  that  lady's  sense  of  propriety  in  the  most 
outrageous  manner. 

She  was  giving  the  poor  old  manor-house  a  fit  of 
the  severest  hydrophobic  convulsions,  which  she 
called  a  spring  cleaning,  turning  every  trunk,  box, 
wardrobe,  closet  and  store-room  inside  out,  and 
raising  dust  that  had  rested  undisturbed  for  ages, 
when,  thinking  that  she  needed  more  help,  she  de 
termined  to  walk  down  to  the  landing,  where,  she 
was  told,  the  fisher-boy  was  at  work,  and  to  send 
him  to  fetch  his  grandmother  to  her  assistance. 
When  she  reached  the  old  sea  wall  and  stood  in  the 
breach,  this  is  what  she  saw  before  her : 

A  little  fire  kindled  on  the  sands,  and  some  fresh 
fish  laid  on  the  coals  to  broil ;  a  little  napkin  spread 
on  a  flat  stone,  with  two  litttle  blue-edged  plates 
and  green-feandled  knives  and  forks,  a  bunch  of 
radishes,  a  bunch  of  onions,  and  two  rolls  of  wheat 
bread,  and  lastly,  the  two  children  sitting,  side  by 
side,  in  the  old  boat,  reading  from  the  same  book. 

Miss  Agrippina  raised  up  both  her  hands  in 
speechless  amazement.  Then  controlling  herself, 
she  forbore  all  reproaches  to  the  little,  unconscious 
offender,  and  only  saying :  "Gloria,  my  love,  your 


GLORIA  83 

uncle  wants  you.  Go  right  home,"  came  calmly 
down  to  the  scene. 

Quite  innocent  of  any  impropriety,  the  little  girl 
rose  obediently,  and  saying : 

"I  am  sorry,  David  Lindsay,  that  I  cannot  stay 
and  take  dinner  with  you  to-day;  but  poor  uncle, 
you  know!  I  must  go  to  him  directly;  you  must 
take  the  book  along  with  you  and  read  it  at  home 
to-night,"  she  ran  lightly  along,  tripped  over  the 
broken  wall,  and  home. 

Miss  Agrippina  turned  to  dispatch  the  boy  on 
his  errand  after  his  grandmother. 

David  promptly  left  his  culinary  preparations, 
unmoored  his  boat,  and  rowed  rapidly  for  the  isle. 

And  so  the  children's  little,  innocent  al  fresco 
feast  was  spoiled;  but  that  was  nothing  to  what 
happened  afterwards. 


CHAPTER    VII 

CHANGES 

All  she  did  was  but  to  wear  out  the  day ; 

Full  oftentimes  she  leave  of  him  did  take; 
And  oft  again  devised  somewhat  to  say, 

Which  she  forgot,  whereby  excuse  to  make; 

So  loth  was  she  his  company  to  forsake. 

SPENSER. 

Miss  AGRIPPINA  DE  CRESPIGNEY  stood  in  the 
breach  of  the  old  stone  sea-wall,  watching  David 
Lindsay  as  he  rowed  rapidly  from  the  shore. 

"This  intimacy  must  be  stopped  at  once,"  she 


84  GLORIA 

said;  "that  poor,  neglected  child  must  be  looked 
after  and  not  allowed  to  associate  with  every  rude 
boor  that  she  may  happen  to  meet  on  this  dreary 
promontory!  She  must  be  sent  to  school.  I  will 
speak  to  Colonel  de  Crespigney  on  the  subject  at 
once." 

So  muttering,  Miss  Grip  turned,  clambered  down 
from  her  standpoint  and  walked  rapidly  towards 
the  house. 

When  she  got  there  she  found  little  Glo'  standing 
between  her  uncle's  knees,  as  he  reclined  in  his 
chip-bottomed  arm-chair  in  the  front  porch. 

"Why,  how  is  this,  Aunt  Agrippina?  This  child 
says  you  told  her  I  sent  for  her.  It  was  surely  a 
mistake.  I  never  sent  for  her,"  said  Colonel  de 
Crespigney,  as  soon  as  he  saw  Miss  Grip. 

"No  one  said  you  did.  I  told  her  you  wanted  her, 
and  so  you  do  want  her,  or  at  least  you  ought  to," 
grimly  replied  the  lady. 

"Why,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean.  Miss  de  Cres 
pigney?" 

"You  know  very  well  what  I  mean,  or  you  should 
know,"  severely  retorted  Miss  Grip. 

"Upon  my  sacred  word  of  honor,  I  don't!  Pray 
explain  yourself,"  entreated  the  colonel. 

Instead  of  replying  to  him,  Miss  Agrippina  de 
liberately  divested  herself  of  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
and  gave  them  to  the  child,  saying : 

"Here,  my  dear,  take  these  up  into  my  room  and 
put  them  away  carefully." 

"Now,  then,  what  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the 
colonel,  when  the  little  girl  had  disappeared  into 
the  house. 

"I  mean  that  you  want  your  ward  to  stay  at  home 


GLORIA  85 

until  she  goes  to  school,  which  she  must  do  very 
soon,"  said  Miss  Grip,  decidedly. 

"Go  to  school?  How  can  she?  There  is  no  school 
fit  for  her  within  fifty  miles  of  this  place." 

"Certainly  not.  She  must  be  sent  away  to  a  first- 
class  boarding-school." 

"I  cannot  consent  to  that,  Aunt  Agrippina.  I  can 
not,  and  will  not.  I  cannot  part  with  her.  Besides, 
it  would  break  her  heart  to  send  her  away." 

"Fiddle!"  said  Miss  Grip. 

"Yet  I  see  that  she  should  have  instruction.  I 
will  advertise  for  a  first-class  resident  governess." 

"You  will  not  do  any  such  thing.  Colonel  Mar- 
cellus  de  Crespigney !  A  resident  governess  in  the 
house,  indeed!  Why,  she  would  marry  you  in  six 
months!" 

"Absurd !"  indignantly  exclaimed  the  colonel. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  may  call  it  'absurd,'  if  you  like! 
But  I  know  you,  Marcellus!  Any  needy  woman, 
any  single  woman,  I  mean,  young  or  old,  plain  or 
pretty,  shut  up  in  the  same  house  with  you,  would 
marry  you  out  of  hand !" 

"You  must  think  me  a  very  weak  man,"  said  the 
colonel. 

"I  do,"  said  Miss  Grip. 

"Thank  you,"  said  De  Crespigney,  with  an  air  of 
chagrin. 

"Weak  where  your  sympathies  are  concerned, 
Marcel,  and  that  is  no  discredit  to  you,  my  dear' 
But  I'll  not  have  any  wandering  woman  making  her 
market  at  your  expense !  No,  sir !  no  resident  gov 
erness,  if  you  please !" 

"I  hope,  Aunt  Agrippina,  you  will  permit  me  to 
be  master  of  my  own  house,  so  far  as  to  say  who 
shall  or  shall  not  make  a  part  of  my  family." 


86  GLORIA 

"Oh,  by  all  means,  and  take  the  consequences,  too, 
for  if  you  engage  a  resident  governess,  I  shall  leave 
the  house.  And  after  I  go  what  respectable  woman, 
do  you  suppose,  would  come  and  live  here  with  a 
young  widower,  and  no  lady  of  his  family  to  keep 
her  in  countenance?  Ah,  ha !  I  have  you  there,  Mar 
cel  !  Yes,  and  I  mean  to  keep  you  there !" 

"It  is  rather  unkind  of  you,  Aunt  Agrippina;  but 
I  shall  not  argue  the  point,  since  I  know  from  ex 
perience  that  nothing  ever  turned  you  from  any 
resolution  that  you  had  formed.  Still,  I  say,  it  is 
very  unkind  of  you,"  said  the  colonel,  with  a 
wounded  air. 

"It  is  for  your  own  good,  honey.  If  I  were  to  stay 
here  and  let  a  resident  governess  come,  she  would 
make  you  the  captive  of  her  bow  and  spear,  and 
marry  you  right  under  my  very  nose!  It  will  not 
do,  Marcel.  The  child  must  be  sent  to  school." 

"But  she  is  so  young  yet.  Not  nine  years  old  un 
til  June.  You  or  I  can  direct  her  studies  for  the 
next  year  or  two." 

"I  don't  see  it.  Besides,  who  is  to  look  after  her 
out  of  school  hours?  I  tell  you,  Marcel,  it  is  not 
only  for  her  education  that  she  is  to  be  sent  from 
home." 

"For  what  other  reason,  I  pray  you?" 

"To  keep  her  out  of  bad  company." 

"  'Bad  company?7  Bad  company,  in  this  remote, 
isolated  place?"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  gazing  at 
the  lady  in  surprise. 

"Yes!  bad  company,  I  say!  the  very  worst  com 
pany  !  I  think  it  is  a  shame,  a  burning  and  a  crying 
shame,"  exclaimed  Miss  Grip,  firing  up  at  the  sound 
of  her  own  words — "a  burning  and  a  crying  shame 
that  she,  Maria  da  Gloria  de  la  Vera,  a  Countess  of 


GLORIA  8T 

Portugal  by  birth,  should  be  left  here  to  run  wild 
like  any  little  savage,  with  no  better  companion 
than  a  low-born,  ignorant  fisher-boy!  There!" 

"Lord — bless — my — soul — alive!"  cried  the  col 
onel,  sarcastically. 

"Where  do  you  suppose  I  found  them?"  sharply 
demanded  Miss  Grip,  whose  temper  was  rising. 

"Found — whom?"  coolly  inquired  the  colonel. 

"Your  niece  and  ward,  the  Countess  Maria,  and 
your  hired  servant,  David,  the  fisher-boy." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  be  ridiculous,  my  dear 
aunt.  What  good  does  that  title  do  our  poor  little 
girl,  here  in  democratic  America?  Why,  even  her 
father,  a  Portuguese  nobleman  by  birth,  but  a 
staunch  republican  in  principle,  dropped  his  title 
when  he  transferred  his  interests  to  the  United 
States,"  said  Marcel. 

"Then  he  had  no  right  to  do  it,  and  his  act  is  of 
no  consequence  to  his  daughter.  She  is  the  Countess 
de  la  Vera,  and  she  would  be  recognized  as  such  in 
any  other  civilized  country  except  in  democratic 
America,  as  you  call  it.  But  that  is  not  the  point." 

"What  is  the  point,  then?" 

"I  asked  you  just  now,  where  you  supposed  I 
found  them?" 

"In  a  boat,  on  the  water?" 

"No;  sitting  on  an  old,  overturned  boat  under  the 
broken  sea-wall,  side  by  side,  with  an  open  book  be 
fore  them,  both  their  hands  on  the  covers,  both 
faces  bent  over  the  same  page." 

"God  bless  the  child!  She  was  trying  to  teach 
the  lad !"  ejaculated  Marcel,  with  a  smile  of  sympa 
thetic  pleasure  in  his  eyes. 

"I  say  it  is  most  improper!  most  indecorous! 
most  objectionable!  for  the  little  Countess  Maria 


S8  GLORIA 

to  be  sitting  down  on  an  old  boat  side  by  side  with 
a  low,  vulgar,  ill-bred  fisher-boy!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Grip. 

"Stop,  stop,  my  dear  lady !  You  go  too  far,  in 
deed  !  David  Lindsay  is  a  poor  fisher  lad,  certainly ; 
but  he  is  not,  in  any  sense  of  the  words,  low,  vulgar, 
or  ill-bred." 

"Now,  how  can  he  be  anything  else?" 

"By  intuition.  He  has  the  intuitions  of  a  little 
gentleman." 

"And  now,  since  you  talk  like  that,  I  am  more 
determined  than  ever  that  the  child  shall  go  to 
school,"  said  Miss  Grip. 

"It  is  of  no  earthly  use  for  you  to  persist  in  say 
ing  so,  Aunt  Agrippina.  I  cannot  part  with  little 
Glo?.  She  is  the  sunshine  of  my  home — the  light  of 
my  life!  Besides,  she  loves  me  so  that  she  could 
not  bear  to  leave  me.  The  separation  would  grieve 
her  to  death." 

"Fiddle!"  scornfully  repeated  Miss  Grip. 

The  reappearance  of  little  Glo'  interrupted  the 
conversation,  and  the  subject  was  dropped  for  the 
time  being. 

There  is  an  Indian  song  which  teaches  a  good 
lesson  in  perseverance: 

"If  a  man  talk  a  very  long  time, 
If  a  man  talk  a  very  long  time, 
If  a  man  talk  a  very  long  time, 
He  will  bore  a  hole  through  a  rock." 

And  if  a  woman  so  talk,  the  effect  is  surer  as  well 
as  swifter. 

At  the  very  first  opportunity  Miss  Agrippina  de 


GLORIA  89 

Oespigney  resumed  the  subject  of  sending  her 
niece  to  school,  and  she  talked  a  "very  long  time.'7 

Again  and  again  she  returned  to  the  theme,  and 
longer  and  longer  she  talked.  She  would  listen  to 
no  proposal  of  home  teaching.  She  would  come  to 
no  compromise  whatever.  She  would  send  the  lit 
tle  "countess"  to  a  first-class  French  and  English 
Ladies7  Academy. 

But  it  was  not  until  late  in  the  summer  that 
Colonel  de  Crespigney,  worn  out  with  importunity 
and  convinced,  though  against  his  will,  by  argu 
ment,  reluctantly  consented  to  the  plan. 

Miss  Agrippina  acted  promptly  ori  his  decision, 
lest  it  should  be  repented  of  and  withdrawn. 

"This  is  Friday,  the  lith  of  August,"  she  said. 
"I  will  myself  leave  here  with  the  child  on  Monday, 
the  17th.  We  will  go  to  Baltimore  and  stop  at  some 
good  family  boarding-house.  Then  I  will  go  to  the 
Academy  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  and  make  an  engage 
ment  to  enter  her  on  the  reopening  of  the  school 
exercises  on  the  first  of  September,  get  a  list  of  the 
articles  required  for  her  school  uniform  and  outfit, 
have  them  purchased  and  made  up  in  the  interval, 
enter  my  little  lady  on  the  opening  day,  and  come 
home.  All  this  will  take  me  about  a  fortnight,  I 
suppose,"  said  Miss  Grip. 

And  the  same  day  she  packed  up  a  few  changes 
of  clothes  for  herself  and  her  niece,  and  then  com 
municated  to  the  child  that  she  was  to  go  to  school 
on  the  following  Monday. 

Her  words  conveyed  but  a  tithe  of  the  truth  to 
the  inexperienced  little  girl,  who  forthwith  went  to 
her  "dee-ar  Marcel"  for  further  information. 

She  found  him  in  his  favorite  seat — the  old  chip- 
bottomed  arm-chair,  on  the  front  porch. 


90  GLORIA 

"Am  I  really  going  away  from  you  to  school, 
uncle  dee-ar?"  she  inquired,  seating  herself  on  his 
knees  and  putting  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"Yes,  my  darling.  You  are  a  little  lady,  and  must 
be  educated,  cultivated,  refined,  accomplished.  And 
so  you  must  go  to  school,"  replied  "Marcel,"  laying 
her  tender  cheek  against  his  hirsute  face. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  all  that,  uncle.  I  want 
to  stay  with  you  always,  and  play  with  David 
Lindsay." 

Marcel  caressed  her  tenderly,  and  explained 
gently  the  absolute  necessity  of  her  submission  to 
the  social  law  that  required  her  to  be  educated. 

"Won't  you  be  lonesome  without  your  little  Glo', 
Marcel,  dee-ar!" 

"Very  lonesome  indeed,  my  child." 

"And  won't  you  be  very  sorry?'-  she  asked, 
smoothing  his  hair  with  her  small  hand. 

"No,  not  very  sorry,  darling.  I  shall  be  glad  be 
cause  it  will  be  for  your  good,"  said  De  Crespigney, 
trying  to  look  as  if  he  meant  what  he  said. 

"You  have  got  Aunty  Agrippina  and  your  books 
and  your  music  to  keep  you  company.  But  David 
Lindsay!  Oh,  Marcel,  David  Lindsay!"  said  the 
child,  as  the  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"What  of  him,  my  pet?"  asked  the  colonel  very 
gravely. 

"Oh,  he  has  got  nobody  but  me,  and  no  music 
nor  books  but  what  I  bring  him.  Oh,  poor  David 
Lindsay!  What  will  he  do?"  sighed  Glo>. 

"He  will  do  very  well,  my  dear.  He  will  i)e  busy 
with  his  fishing." 

"But  he  can't  be  always  fishing!  And  he  will 
have  nobody  to  play  with,  or  to  read  with,  or  to 
bring  him  books,  or — oh,  dear!  what  shall  we  do? 


GLORIA  91 

Oh,  I  can't  go  to  school,  Marcel!  I  can't!  How 
can  I  go  and  leave  you  and  David  Lindsay?"  broke 
forth  the  child,  in  a  wail  of  distress. 

"I  and  David  Lindsay  must  try  and  console  each 
other,  in  our  little  lady's  absence,  with  the  thought 
that  it  is  all  for  her  good  that  she  has  gone.  We 
shall  do  very  well,"  said  the  colonel,  more  gravely 
and  tenderly  than  he  had  yet  spoken. 

"Oh,  will  you?  Will  you?  Will  you  comfort 
David  Lindsay?  Will  you  lend  him  some  books? 
Oh,  he  is  so  hungry  for  books,  uncle  dee-ar.  I  am 
going  to  give  him  all  mine  before  I  go  away;  but 
mine  are  only  a  few,  and  he  will  soon  read  them 
all.  Will  you  lend  him  some?  Will  you,  Marcel, 
dee-ar?" 

"Yes,  darling,  I  will  indeed.  I  will,  my  precious. 
I  will  charge  myself  with  the  welfare  of  your  little 
friend,  and  he  shall  not  want  books,  nor  advice, 
nor  anything  that  he  may  require,  if  he  wishes  to 
cultivate  his  mind,"  said  Marcel  de  Crespigney,  who 
was  absolutely  without  any  prejudices  of  rank. 

"And  oh!  will  you  love  David  Lindsay,  and  let 
him  love  you,  like  I  do?" 

"Like  you  do?    What  do  you  mean,  my  child?" 

"Like  I  love  you !  Will  you  love  him  and  let  him 
love  you,  like  I  love  you?"  she  pleaded,  laying  her 
soft  cheek  against  his  face — a  frequent  caress  of 
hers. 

He  kissed  her  for  all  reply. 

It  was  too  late  that  Friday  evening  to  see  her 
playmate.  She  had  been  reading  with  him  all  that 
afternoon,  and  had  taken  leave  of  him  before  she 
knew  that  she  was  to  go  to  school.  Now  she  felt 
sure  that  he  had  gone  home,  and  she  should  not 


92  GLORIA 

have  a  chance  to  see  him  and  tell  him  until  the  next 
day. 

Still,  she  was  thinking  more  of  her  playmate  than 
of  any  one  else,  simply  because  he  had  more  need 
of  her  than  any  one  else.  So  she  went  up  to  her 
little  book-case  and  took  down  all  her  books  and 
packed  them  in  a  trunk  that  would  hold  about 
twenty-five  or  thirty  miscellaneous  volumes,  com 
prising  nearly  all  of  Peter  Parley's  and  other 
juvenile  works,  that  were  held  in  great  favor  at  that 
time.  With  these  she  put  in  two  slates,  a  dozen 
graded  copy-books,  pens,  pencils,  india-rubber,  blot 
ting-papers,  inkstand,  and  every  requisite  of  the 
school-desk  that  she  could  find. 

Then  she  locked  it  and  called  up  old  Laban,  and 
said  to  him : 

"I  want  you  to  shoulder  this  and  take  it  down 
to  the  boat-house  for  me." 

The  old  servant  looked  at  the  trunk  and  looked 
at  the  child,  scratched  his  head,  and  declared: 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Miss  Glo'." 

The  little  creature  was  not  disposed  to  take  airs 
on  herself;  so  she  kindly  explained  to  the  old  man 
what  she  intended  to  do  with  the  trunk,  adding 
truthfully : 

"I  told  Uncle  Marcel,  and  he  did  not  object." 

Old  Laban  then  shouldered  the  trunk  and  fol 
lowed  his  little  mistress  down  the  stairs,  out  of  the 
front  door,  and  so  down  to  the  end  of  the  promon 
tory,  through  the  breach  in  the  old  sea-wall,  and 
finally  to  a  dilapidated  little  boat-house,  where  she 
directed  him  to  place  it. 

"It  will  be  safe  there  until  the  morning  and  then 
I  can  give  it  to  David  Lindsay,  and  he  can  carry  it 
away  in  his  boat." 


GLORIA  93 

The  sun  had  set  half  an  hour  before,  and  it  was 
growing  dark,  so  little  Glo'  and  her  sable  com 
panion  hurried  from  the  shore  back  to  the  house. 

"Saturday  and  Sunday!  I  have  only  got  two 
days  to  be  with  Uncle  Marcel  and  David  Lindsay," 
said  little  Glo?  to  herself  when  she  awoke  the  next 
morning. 

And  to  make  the  most  of  her  time,  she  hurried 
out  of  bed,  dressed  herself  quickly,  and  ran  down 
stairs. 

Her  aunt  and  uncle  had  not  yet  appeared,  so  she 
said  to  the  cook : 

"Just  give  me  a  cup  of  milk  and  a  biscuit,  'Phia, 
and  I  will  eat  my  breakfast  and  go.  It  is  my  last 
day  but  one  at  home,  and  I  must  make  the  most 
of  it." 

The  old  woman  complied  with  her  request,  and 
the  little  girl  quickly  dispatched  her  meal,  snatched 
her  straw  hat  from  the  rack  in  the  hall,  and  ran 
out  of  the  house  and  down  to  the  beach. 

She  stood  in  the  breach  of  the  broken  wall  and 
looked  all  around  for  her  playmate,  but  did  not 
see  him,  and  she  thought  she  was  going  to  be  dis 
appointed  ;  but  just  then  she  heard  the  sound  of  a 
hammer,  and  knew  it  must  come  from  one  held  in 
his  hand,  for  there  was  no  one  else  who  worked  on 
the  beach. 

She  ran  down  and  found  him  nailing  loose  boards 
on  the  old  boat-house. 

"Oh !  David  Lindsay,"  she  exclaimed,  as  soon  as 
she  saw  him,  "I  have  got  something  to  tell  you! 
What  do  you  think  it  is?  Oh,  you  would  never 
guess !  I  am  going  away  on  Monday !" 

"Oh!  NO!"  cried  the  boy,  while  a  look  of  blank 
consternation  came  over  his  face. 


9i  GLORIA 

"Indeed,  I  am !  I  don't  want  to  go ;  but  they  say 
I  must,  David  Lindsay." 

"Oh!  where  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  in  a  great 
trouble,  that  he  never  dreamed  of  trying  to  hide. 

"To  a  boarding-school  in  Baltimore.  Oh !  I  don't 
want  to  go,  David  Lindsay !  But  they  say  I  must !" 
cried  the  child,  almost  in  tears  again. 

The  lad  sighed,  looked  thoughtful,  and  then  said : 

"Yes ;  I  know.  Even  grandmother  has  said  often : 
'Why  don't  they  send  that  little  lady  to  school? 
She  ought  to  be  at  school.'  So  I  suppose  you  must 
go,  sure  enough,  and  it  is  all  right;  but  it  is  very 
har — hard !"  said  the  boy,  valiantly  trying  to  sup 
press  a  sob,  and  succeeding  in  doing  so. 

"Yes,  it  is  hard;  but  Uncle  Marcel  says  that  he 
and  you  must  console  each  other;  and  he  says  he 
will  lend  you  books  and  give  you  advice,  and  help 
you,  if  you  wish,  to  improve  your  mind,  David  Lind 
say.  And  here,  come  in  here,  and  see  what  I  have 
got  for  you !  I  told  uncle  I  was  going  to  give  them 
to  you,  and  he  did  not  object.  And  old  Laban 
brought  them  down  here  for  me  yesterday.  Come 
and  see,"  she  said,  as  she  led  the  way  into  the  old 
boat-house  and  pointed  to  the  trunk. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  boy.     "Books?" 

"Yes!  Drag  the  trunk  out  into  the  light  where 
I  can  show  it  to  you,  David  Lindsay." 

The  boy  obeyed. 

The  girl  then  unlocked  the  trunk  and  gleefully 
displayed  its  contents,  looking  up  into  the  boy's 
face  with  eyes  dancing  with  the  delight  of  delight 
ing.  Indeed,  his  eyes,  radiant  with  rapture,  re 
sponded  fully. 

"Oh!  oh!  what  heaps  of  books  and  things!"  he 
cried. 


GLORIA  95 

"They  are  all,  all  yours,  David  Lindsay !" 

"Oh. !  oh !  how  generous  you  are !  And — oh !  how 
happy  you  must  be !"  he  exclaimed,  fairly  catching 
his  breath  in  ecstasy. 

"Indeed  I  am  very,  very  happy,  David  Lindsay !" 
she  cried. 

And  so  she  was  at  that  moment,  while  looking  on 
her  playmate's  happiness,  and  forgetting  that  she 
had  to  leave  him  soon  and  go  away  from  home. 

And  then  both  went  to  work  and  tumbled  out  all 
the  slates,  pencils,  and  pens,  all  the  "Peter  Par 
leys/'  and  other  attractive  school  books. 

Finally,  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk,  lay  two 
thick  volumes,  which  little  Glo'  with  some  difficulty 
lifted  out  and  took  upon  her  lap,  and  playfully  hid 
with  her  handkerchief,  saying: 

"And  now,  David  Lindsay,  here  are  two  precious, 
precious  treasures,  too  precious  to  be  read  very 
often !" 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  boy— "the  Holy  Bible  in 
two  volumes?" 

"No,"  answered  the  girl,  gravely  and  sweetly. 
"The  Word  of  the  Lord  is  the  Book  of  books,  and 
not  to  be  talked  of  with  others." 

"Well,  then,  is  it  the  Lives  of  the  Saints?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  smiling ;  "but  you  can  never 
guess.  This  one  in  blue  and  gold  is  the  'Arabian 
Nights'  Entertainment,'  and  this  one  in  crimson, 
with  the  painted  picture  on  the  cover,  is  'Fairy 
Tales.'  Oh !  they  are  just  splendid,  David  Lindsay ! 
I  love  them,  and  so  will  you ;  but  you  ought  not  to 
read  them  until  you  have  done  all  your  work  and 
lessons  for  the  day.  Mamma  never  let  me  have  the 
story-books  until  I  had  done  my  lessons,"  said  the 
little  girl,  solemnly. 


96  GLORIA 

Meanwhile  David  was  looking  at  the  new  books. 

"I — I  like  these  a  heap  better  than  I  do  the 
school  ones,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  over  the  pages. 

"Oh,  to  be  sure!  So  do  I.  But  they  are  only 
holiday  books,  you  know." 

"Yes,  these  are  only  holidays,  and  these  are  work 
ing  hours/'  said  the  boy,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile, 
as  he  began  to  replace  the  volumes  in  the  bottom 
of  the  trunk. 

"I  will  put  them  all  back  again,  if  you  want  to 
go  to  work,  David  Lindsay,"  she  said,  as  she  joined 
him  in  the  task  that  soon,  at  her  word,  he  left  her 
to  complete.  Then  the  sound  of  his  hammer  kept 
time  to  her  hands  as  they  quickly  stowed  away  the 
treasures  in  the  trunk. 

Presently  the  boy  stopped  hammering  and  came 
to  speak  to  her  again. 

"You  are  so  good  to  me.  You  do  so  much  for  me, 
and  I  do  not  do  any  for  you.  I  have  not  found  out 
what  to  do  for  you !  Oh,  could  you  tell  me  what  I 
could  do  for  you?" 

She  opened  her  blue  eyes  wide  with  astonish 
ment  pure  and  simple. 

"Why,  why,  you  are  always  doing  ever  so  much 
to  please  me !"  she  said. 

"Now  what?    Do  just  tell  me  what?"  he  asked. 

She  paused  in  thought  so  long  that  he  asked 
again,  earnestly: 

"What  do  I  do  to  please  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  just  what  in  particular,  but 
you  do  everything  every  day,  all  the  time!  Why, 
David  Lindsay,  if  you  was  to  go  to  heaven  and 
leave  me  behind,  I  should  just  cry  my  eyes  out! 
Yes,  I  should  just  sit  down  on  the  old  boat  here 
and  cry  my  eyes  out!"  And  moved  by  the  picture 


GLORIA  97 

her  imagination  had  drawn,  she  might  have  given 
him  a  practical  illustration,  if  he  had  not  quickly 
responded : 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  heaven  to  leave  you  be 
hind  !  All  we  Lindsay  fishermen  live  to  be  old  men 
of  eighty  or  ninety,  if  we  don't  get  drowned,  you 
know!  Though  indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that,  we 
mostly  do  get  drowned,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone. 

But  she  heard  him,  and  quickly  cried : 

"Oh !  Don't  you  go  and  get  drowned,  please  don't, 
David  Lindsay!" 

"Indeed,  I  don't  mean  to!"  said  the  boy,  as  he 
went  back  to  his  hammering. 

At  that  moment  the  colored  girl,  Lamia,  appeared 
in  the  breach  of  the  wall,  calling  for  Miss  Gloria. 

The  child  stood  up,  and  answered : 

"Here  I  am.    Who  wants  me?" 

"Your  aunt!  Leastways,  your  uncle's  aunt — 
Miss  Aggravatin  Discrepancy,"  said  Lamia. 

(That  was  what  the  negroes,  with  their  usual 
blundering  manner,  made  out  of  the  lady's  classic 
and  elegant  maiden  name.) 

"What  does  my  aunt  want  with  me,  Lamia?" 
inquired  the  child,  with  a  troubled  look. 

"To  try  on  yer  travelin'  dress,  which  me  an'  Miss 
Aggravatin  has  been  a  rippin'  up  of  one  of  her  own 
old  allypackers  to  make  over  for  you,  an?  a  cuttin' 
an'  a  bastin'  of  it  all  de  whole  mornin'.  Come 
along,  chile,  'cause  it's  got  to  be  finished  to-night, 
ef  we  sets  up  workin'  on  it  till  to-morrow  mornin'." 

"I  must  go,  David  Lindsay.  I  must  go.  But  I 
will  come  back  as  soon  as  ever  I  can  get  away. 
And  oh,  won't  you  please  try  to  get  through  your 
work  so  as  to  take  time  to  row  me  over  to  Sandy 
Hill  to  take  leave  of  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay?  Oh, 


98  GLORIA 

indeed  I  must  go  and  take  leave  of  dee-ar  Granny 
Lindsay!"  said  little  Glo',  looking  earnestly  in  the 
face  of  her  playmate. 

"I  will  work  fast  and  get  through  all  I  have  to 
do.  I  won't  stop  for  dinner,  but  will  work  through 
the  noon  hour,  and  then  I  can  get  done  by  four 
o'clock  and  be  ready  for  you,"  replied  the  boy. 

Little  Glo'  ran  home  so  as  to  get  through  the  "try 
ing  on"  as  soon  as  possible. 

She  found  her  aunt  too  busy  to  question  her  as 
to  where  she  had  been. 

Miss  Agrippina  did  not  detain  her  long,  but  as 
soon  as  the  waist  of  the  dress  was  fitted,  and  the 
length  of  the  sleeves  and  skirt  measured,  she  dis 
missed  the  child. 

Full  of  a  new  idea,  little  Glo'  ran  to  seek  her 
uncle. 

She  found  Colonel  de  Crespigney  in  the  library, 
seated  before  the  old  organ,  drawing  weird  music 
from  its  worn-out  keys. 

"Marcel,  dee-ar,  I  have  only  got  a  day  and  a  half 
now !  Won't  you  please  let  David  Lindsay  off  from 
his  wrork,  so  he  can  take  me  in  the  row-boat  over 
to  bid  good-by  to  Granny  Lindsay?  Oh,  I  must  say 
good-by  to  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay  before  I  go,"  she 
pleaded,  laying  her  tender  cheek  against  his  face. 

"Yes,  love,"  answered  the  gentle  young  uncle. 
"Yes,  you  shall  have  your  little  will  while  you  stay 
here.  Go  and  tell  the  lad  to  leave  off  work  at  once 
and  row  you  over  to  the  island." 

She  kissed  him  in  warm  gratitude  and  sped  away 
to  the  landing,  where  she  found  her  playmate  still 
at  work. 

She  told  him  her  joyful  news,  exclaiming  glee 
fully: 


GLORIA  99 

"We  shall  have  a  whole  half-day  holiday,  for  it  is 
only  just  twelve  o'clock,  David  Lindsay !  We  shall 
have,  oh,  such  a  happy,  happy  half  day !" 

The  boy  quickly  stopped  his  work  and  got  his 
boat  ready. 

Then  the  children  lifted  the  trunk  of  books  be 
tween  them  and  placed  it  in  the  skiff.  Lastly  they 
entered  and  seated  themselves,  and  David  took  up 
the  oars  and  rowed  for  the  isle. 

They  found  the  old  dame  busily  engaged  in  pre 
paring  her  frugal  early  dinner  of  tea  and  bread  and 
butter,  with  fried  fish,  boiled  eggs,  and  peaches  and 
milk. 

She  gave  the  little  lady  a  warm  welcome  and 
divested  her  of  her  hat  and  mantle.  And  while 
Gloria  explained  that  her  uncle  had  given  David 
Lindsay  a  half  holiday,  the  dame  added  two  more 
cups  and  saucers  and  teaspoons  and  two  more  plates 
and  pairs  of  knives  and  forks  to  the  table  and  put 
a  few  more  eggs  on  to  boil. 

"I  am  going  to  school  on  Monday,  Granny  Lind 
say,  and  I  have  come  to  take  leave  of  you,"  said 
little  Glo',  when  she  took  the  seat  that  David  had 
placed  for  her. 

"Have  'ee,  darling?  I'm  glad  to  see  'ee,  and  main 
glad  to  hear  'ee's  going  to  school,"  cordially  replied 
the  dame. 

"I  don't  want  to  go,  Granny  Lindsay!  I  don't 
want  to  leave  you  all,"  sighed  the  child. 

"But  'ee  ought  to,  darling.  'Ee's  a  little  lady, 
and  'ee  ought  to  be  trained  up  as  such." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be,  Granny  Lindsay!  I 
want  to  stay  home  with  dee-ar  Marcel  and  you  and 
David  Lindsay!"  sadly  persisted  the  child. 


100  GLORIA 

i     "  ?Eee  must  subject   'eeself  to  ?ee  pastors  and 
masters,  little  lady.    They  do  all  for  ?ee  own  good." 

"Aunt  Agrippina  says  that  I  am  a  countess, 
Granny  Lindsay ;  but  I  know  I  am  not.  I  am  worse 
at  counting  than  at  anything  else.  I  never  could 
learn  the  multiplication  table,"  said  the  child,  with 
a  look  of  perplexity  and  vexation. 

"So  much  the  more  reason  for  ?ee  to  go  to  school, 
my  little  lady!  Now  sit  ?ee  up  to  table  and  have 
some  dinner." 

Little  Glo'  soon  forgot  her  trouble  in  the  society 
of  Granny  Lindsay  and  David. 

She  passed  a  "happy,  happy  half  day,"  then,  with 
many  kisses,  took  a  loving  leave  of  her  old  friend, 
and  returned  home  in  charge  of  the  fisher  lad. 

It  was  sunset  when  they  landed  on  the  promon 
tory  beach. 

"To-morrow  is  Sunday.  Uncle  and  aunt  and  I 
will  go  to  church  at  La  Compte's  Landing.  But 
after  church  we  shall  come  directly  home.  Will 
you  come  in  the  afternoon  to  bid  me  a  last  good-by 
before  I  go?  You  know  we  are  to  start  before  day 
on  Monday,  so  as  to  catch  the  St.  Inigoes  stage 
coach,"  said  little  Glo',  as  she  was  about  to  take 
leave  of  her  friend. 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  am  going  to  church  at  St. 
Inigoes,  but  I  will  go  to  early  mass,  so  as  to  be  back 
in  time  to  come  here  in  the  afternoon,"  replied  the 
boy. 

"So  do!    Good-night,  David  Lindsay!" 

"Good-night!" 

"God  bless  you,  David  Lindsay !" 

"And  you,  too!" 

She  sped  away  towards  the  house,  not  singing 


GLORIA  101 

and  dancing  as  had  been  her  custom.  Her  little 
loving  heart  was  too  heavy  with  the  thought  of  part 
ing  with  her  friends. 

The  next  day  she  went  with  her  uncle  and  aunt  to 
morning  service  at  La  Compte's  Landing,  returned 
with  them  to  a  early  dinner,  and  then  went  down 
to  the  beach  to  bid  a  last  good-by  to  her  friend  and 
playmate. 

He  was  waiting  for  her  with  a  box  of  fine  shells 
in  his  hand. 

"These  are  some  that  grandfather  brought  home 
from  the  Indian  Ocean.  Granny  has  kept  them  for 
a  long  time;  but  she  wants  you  to  have  them  now," 
he  said,  rising  and  offering  the  box. 

"Oh,  how  beautiful !"  she  exclaimed,  sitting  down 
with  the  box  on  her  lap,  and  beginning  to  examine 
them.  "So  many  different  colors !  so  many  different 
shapes  and  sizes!  Not  two  alike!" 

"People  can  make  pretty  boxes  and  vases  out  of 
them,  granny  says.  Make  the  boxes  and  things  out 
of  pasteboard,  you  know,  and  stick  the  shells  on 
them  with  glue,"  said  the  boy,  as  he  stood  looking 
down  on  her,  pleased  that  she  was  pleased  with  his 
humble  offering. 

"Oh,  but  I  think  it  would  spoil  the  pretty  shells 
to  fix  them  on  to  anything !  I  like  them  to  be  free, 
so  I  can  pour  them  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  and 
turn  them  over !  Oh,  David  Lindsay,  I  am  so  glad 
to  have  them!  And  so  glad  you  gave  them  to  me,, 
too !" 

"Granny  gave  them  to  me  to  give  to  you." 

"Well,  it  is  all  the  same,  David  Lindsay.  And  I 
will  take  the  pretty  little  things  to  school  with  me, 
and  look  at  them  every  day,  and  keep  them  forever 


10$  GLORIA 

and  ever.  Sit  down  by  me  and  let  us  look  at  the 
little  beauties  together.  You  know  that  this  is  our 
last  day." 

The  boy  obeyed  her. 

She  said  it  was  their  "last  day ;"  and  that  day  was 
drawing  rapidly  to  a  close.  The  children  knew  that 
they  were  going  to  part,  but  they  scarcely  knew  yet 
what  the  parting  was  to  be  to  them;  they  had  had 
no  experience  in  separation;  and  both  wondered  a 
little  in  secret  why  they  felt  no  more  pain  at  the 
immediate  prospect  of  losing  each  other. 

When  the  sun  set,  which  was  always  the  signal 
for  their  daily  good-night,  little  Gloria  shut  up  her 
box  of  shells  and  arose,  saying : 

"I  must  go  now.    Good-by,  David  Lindsay." 

"Good-by." 

"God  bless  you,  David  Lindsay!" 

"And  you  too!" 

Now,  according  to  custom,  she  should  have  run 
home;  but  she  lingered,  loth  to  leave  the  spot. 

"You  know  we  are  going  to  start  long  before  day 
light  to-morrow  morning,"  she  said. 

"I — know  it!"  he  gasped  with  a  great  sob. 

"Oh!  David  Lindsay,  don't  cry!"  she  wailed, 
with  the  tears  rushing  to  her  eyes. 

"I'm  not  crying.  It's  a  lump  in  my  throat,"  said 
the  poor  boy. 

"Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  What  shall  I  do?  I  don't 
want  to  go  to  school !  I  don't  want  to  be  a  lady !  I 
don't !  I  don't !  And  poor  Marcel  don't  want  me  to 
go,  neither!"  wept  the  child. 

"And  no  more  do  I!"  cried  the  boy,  struggling 
with  the  "lump  in  his  throat." 

"Don't  cry,  David  Lindsay.  Oh!  please  don't 
cry!" 


GLORIA  103 

"I'm  not  crying  a  bit !  But  I  don't  want  you  to 
go  away,"  sobbed  the  lad. 

"Nobody  does,  but  Aunt  Grip.  It  is  all  Aunt 
Grip!  Oh!  I  wish  she  had  never  come  near  the 
place !  We  were  all  so  happy  until  she  came !  And 
she  says  it  is  all  for  my  own  good.  And  I  think 
that  is  too  bad!" 

Little  Glo's  last  words  awoke  the  better  spirit  of 
the  boy. 

He  sobbed  and  sighed,  and  then  set  himself  to 
comfort  the  little  lady. 

"She  means  it  for  your  good.  Even  granny  says 
you  ought  to  go  to  school.  And  so  I  know  it  must 
be  all  right  for  you  to  go.  And  you  will  come  back 
again,  and  be  able  to  tell  me  lots  of  things." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed;  I  will  come  back  for  the 
Christmas  holidays,  you  know.  And  oh!  David 
Lindsay,  every  time  I  write  to  dee-ar  Marcel  I  will 
send  a  message  to  you.  And  will  you  send  one  back 
to  me,  too?" 

"If  the  master  will  let  me." 

"Why,  of  course  he  will  let  you !  Dee-ar  Marcel 
is  too  tender-hearted  to  refuse.  Let  me  tell  you 
something.  Aunt  Grip,  ever  since  she  has  been 
here,  has  been  trying  to  prevent  me  from  coming 
out  here  and  playing  with  you,  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  dee-ar  Marcel,  she  would  have  prevented 
me;  but  Marcel  would  not  let  me  be  grieved  that 
much." 

The  twilight  was  fading  so  fast  that  the  child 
looked  up  to  the  sky  in  alarm,  exclaiming: 

"Oh!  I  must  go!  I  must  go!  Good-by,  dee-ar 
David  Lindsay!" 


104  GLORIA 

"I  must  walk  with  you  up  to  the  house.  It  is  too 
dark  for  you  to  go  by  yourself,"  said  the  boy,  ris 
ing  to  accompany  her. 

He  helped  her  over  the  rough  stones  of  the 
broken  sea  wall,  and  then  walked  with  her  until 
they  reached  the  porch  and  found  Colonel  de  Cres- 
pigney  and  Miss  Agrippina  sitting  out  there  to  en 
joy  the  delicious  coolness  of  the  August  evening. 

Then  the  boy  paused  and  lifted  his  torn  straw 
hat,  and  said : 

"Good-night." 

"Good-night.  God  bless  you,  dee-ar  David  Lind 
say." 

"And  you  too !" 

So  the  children  parted,  to  meet  no  more  for  years 
to  come. 

That  night  David  Lindsay,  being  a  boy,  and 
therefore  ashamed  of  his  tears,  cried  "all  alone  by 
himself  in  the  little  loft  of  his  island  cot. 

That  night,  little  Glo',  being  a  girl,  sobbed  her 
self  to  sleep  on  the  sympathetic  bosom  of  her 
"dee-ar  Marcel." 

Long  before  light  the  next  morning  she  took  tear 
ful  leave  of  her  uncle  and  her  humble  colored 
friends,  and  started  in  the  custody  of  Miss  Grip  for 
the  distant  city  where  she  was  to  spend  her  school 
days. 

Before  the  end  of  the  month  she  was  duly  entered 
as  a  resident  pupil  in  the  Academy  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  Convent.  And  Miss  Agrippina  de  Crespi- 
gney  returned  to  Promontory  Hall  to  keep  house  for 
her  nephew,  well  satisfied. 


GLORIA  105 

CHAPTER  VIII 

AFTER  SEVEN  YEARS 

Out  of  the  convent  came  the  maid. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

WE  have  lingered  so  long  over  the  lovely  child 
hood  of  little  Glo'  that  we  have  no  time  to  give  to 
her  school-days. 

In  entering  her  at  the  "Sacret  Heart,"  Miss 
Agrippina  had  enrolled  her  as  the  "Countess  Maria 
da  Gloria  de  la  Vera,"  and  had  provided  her  with 
as  rich  and  costly  an  outfit  as  the  rigid  rules  of 
the  academy  would  permit.  She  had  also  fur 
nished  her  with  a  plenty  of  pocket-money. 

All  this  had  given  the  simple-hearted,  humble- 
minded  little  Glo'  a  grand  rank  among  her  untitled 
and  less  wealthy  school-mates,  who  did  all  they 
possibly  could  do  to  transform  her  from  a  meek 
and  lovely  child  to  a  proud  and  supercilious  young 
lady. 

Poor  David  Lindsay  did  not  realize  the  loss  of 
little  Glo'  until  she  had  really  gone.  Then  he  "sor 
rowed  without  hope."  It  is  true  that  he  believed 
she  would  return  at  Christmas;  but  that  was  four 
long  months  off. 

From  the  fourth  day  of  her  departure  he  began 
to  watch  for  the  return  of  old  Laban  from  his 
Tuesday's  and  Friday's  trips  to  St.  Inigoes?  Post- 
office,  and  on  his  appearance  would  call  out: 

"Any  letters,  Uncle  Laban?" 

The  answers  were  always: 


106  GLORIA 

"Yes." 

Then,  after  the  decent  delay  of  an  hour,  the  poor 
boy  would  go  up  to  the  house  and  bashfully  ask 
for  the  colonel,  and  when  admitted  to  his  presence 
stand  respectfully,  cap  in  hand,  and  inquire: 

"If  you  please,  sir,  have  you  heard  from " 

"Miss  de  la  Vera?" 

"Yes,  sir,  please." 

"I  have.  She  is  well,  and  sends  her  kind  remem 
brance  to  you,"  would  Colonel  de  Crespigney  reply. 

(Now  this  was  not  at  all  what  little  Glo'  sent. 
She  sent  her  "love  to  dear  David  Lindsay."  But 
Colonel  de  Crespigney  exercised  the  guardian's  pru 
dence  and  privilege  in  translating  the  message  sent 
through  him.) 

On  hearing  this,  the  boy  would  twist  his  little 
torn  hat  in  his  hand  and  say,  timidly,  hesitatingly : 

"If  you  please,  sir,  when  you  write — would  you 
please  to  say  I  thank  her  very  much  for  thinking 
of  me,  and  I  send  her  my " 

"Respects." 

"Yes,  sir,  please."  (Now  this  was  not  at  all  what 
the  poor  boy  meant  to  say;  for  he  really  wished  to 
send  his  "best  love  to  her.") 

The  parted  children  had  no  true  interpreter,  so 
no  wonder  a  gulf  opened  and  widened  between 
them.  But  Marcel  meant  well ;  and  David  Lindsay 
was  destined  to  have  his  turn,  when,  driven  by  the 
very  outrage  and  stress  of  fate,  the  lovely  heiress 
should  lay  her  hand  and  fortune  at  the  feet  of  the 
poor  fisherman  and  implore  him  to  take  them  up. 

She  did  not  come  home  for  the  happy  Christmas 
holidays.  Miss  Agrippina  represented  to  her 
brother  that  to  bring  the  "Countess  Maria"  back 


GLORIA  107 

to  the  promontory  would  be  to  have  all  the  trouble 
of  parting  to  go  through  again;  that  therefore  she 
had  best  be  left  to  spend  her  holidays  at  the  school 
where  she  was  receiving  her  education. 

The  gentle  colonel,  through  indolence  and  good 
nature,  had  fallen  more  and  more  under  the 
dominion  of  his  maiden  aunt,  and  therefore  con 
sented  to  all  her  plans. 

So  little  Glo'  did  not  come  home  for  her  Christ 
mas  holidays.  But  her  young  uncle,  who  had  not 
ceased  to  mourn  in  secret  the  absence  of  his  pet, 
aroused  himself  from  his  lethargy,  and  went  to  the 
city,  and  took  his  niece  from  her  prison,  and  spent 
the  Christmas  holidays  with  her  at  a  fashionable 
hotel,  taking  her  every  evening  to  some  place  of  re 
fined  amusement,  and  so  devoting  himself  to  her 
pleasure  that  the  little  rustic  had  reason  to  believe 
that,  after  all  said,  the  city  was  the  true  Arcadia, 
and  life,  as  "dee-ar  Marcel"  made  it  for  her,  a 
lovely  fairy  tale. 

But  in  all  the  delights  of  her  new  vista  of  life, 
she  did  not  yet  forget  her  childhood's  playmate, 
and  amid  her  many  questions  about  "them  all  at 
home,"  she  did  not  fail  to  inquire  about  "dee-ar 
David  Lindsay." 

Her  guardian  replied  that  the  boy  was  well  and 
doing  well,  but  had  not  come  to  borrow  any  books 
yet,  and,  perhaps,  was  not  so  much  interested  in 
improving  his  mind  as  she  had  supposed.  Boys  of 
his  class  were  not  likely  to  be  so. 

"But,  Marcel,  you  must  interest  yourself  in  him, 
and  not  let  his  interest  in  his  books  flag.  That  was 
not  what  I  expected  of  you,  Marcel !"  said  his  little 
monitress,  reproachfully. 


108  GLORIA 

"I  will  do  better  when  I  return,  my  darling,"  re 
plied  her  penitent. 

"Mind  you  do,  Marcel!  He  has  no  father,  no 
guardian  even,  and  who  will  look  after  my  David 
Lindsay  now  I  am  away,  if  you  do  not?" 

On  the  Monday  after  Twelfth  Day  he  replaced 
the  little  student  in  her  school  and  returned  to  his 
own  dreary  home  and  musty  books. 

He  corresponded  with  her  regularly  through  the 
winter  and  spring  and  the  early  summer ;  and  noted 
the  great  improvement  she  was  making. 

There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  very  much 
annoyed  him  in  her  letters.  She  always  sent  her 
"love  to  dear  David  Lindsay."  But  he  took  care  to 
translate  this  into  "kind  remembrance,"  and  to 
send  back  David's  "respects."  So  the  gulf  widened 
and  widened  between  the  hearts  of  the  children. 

But  David's  time  was  yet  to  come. 

Then,  on  the  first  of  July,  when  the  midsummer 
holidays  were  about  to  commence,  he  went  to  the 
city  again,  took  his  child  out  from  her  prison  and 
carried  her  off  to  the  Greenbriar  White  Sulphur 
Springs  to  give  her  a  glimpse  of  the  glorious  moun 
tain  scenery,  and  an  insight  into  the  great  world 
of  society.  Here  the  handsome  young  widower,  the 
heroic  young  officer,  with  the  laurels  won  in 
Mexico  yet  green  in  the  memories  of  all,  might 
have  become  the  hero  of  the  season;  but  nothing 
could  win  him  away  from  his  "child."  He  rode 
and  drove  with  her  through  the  wild  and  beautiful 
forest  and  mountain  scenery.  He  read  with  her, 
sang  duets  with  her,  played  ten-pins  with  her,  and 
generally  "made  a  fool  of  himself  about  her,"  as 
more  than  one  aggravated  matron  with  marriage- 


GLORIA  109 

able  daughters  declared.  In  September  he  took  his 
child  back  to  her  school  just  a  year  older,  and  sev 
eral  years  more  experienced  than  she  had  been 
when  she  first  entered  the  institution. 

And  now  he  had  reason  to  congratulate  himself 
on  one  thing.  His  ward's  interest  in  the  poor 
fisher-boy  was  evidently  dying  out,  as  he  had  first 
said  it  would.  It  was  well  enough  that  they  should 
have  played  together  as  little  children,  and  he  had 
not  therefore  interfered  to  prevent  them.  He  was 
too  tender-hearted  indeed  to  have  given  them  so 
much  pain.  But  now,  at  last,  it  was  all  ended,  as 
it  should  be. 

The  first  year  was  a  type  of  all  that  followed 
while  she  remained  at  the  "Sacred  Heart."  Every 
Christmas  her  young  uncle  would  go  and  take  her 
from  the  school  and  spend  the  holidays  with  her  at 
a  hotel,  taking  her  to  places  of  amusement  suitable 
to  her  age;  and  at  the  end  of  the  holidays  replac 
ing  her  at  school  and  returning  to  his  own  home. 

Every  June  he  would  go  and  take  her  for  the 
midsummer  vacation,  and  travel  with  her  to  some 
delightful  summer  resort  among  the  mountains,  or 
on  the  lake  shores,  returning  her  to  her  convent 
early  in  September,  and  then  repairing  to  his  own 
estate. 

Sometimes  his  mother  would  write  and  ask  him 
to  bring  his  young  ward  and  join  her  circle  at  New 
port,  or  Niagara,  or  wherever  they  might  have  de 
cided  to  spend  their  summer  season. 

But  Colonel  de  Crespigney  always  found  some 
good  excuse  for  politely  declining  the  invitation. 

The  very  truth  was  that  Marcel  preferred  to  have 
his  little  Glo'  all  to  himself  during  these  long  mid 
summer  vacations. 


110  GLORIA 

Her  vivid  and  deep  delight  in  all  the  sublime  and 
beautiful  in  nature  and  in  art,  rekindled  his  own 
smouldering  enthusiasm  and  revived  his  fading 
youth. 

Thus,  through  her,  he  enjoyed  life  anew.  Now 
his  time  was  divided  like  the  Arctic  year — into  long 
darkness  and  long  light.  The  time  spent  in  his 
gloomy  "penitentiary"  on  the  promontory,  was  his 
Arctic  night;  the  time  passed  in  wandering  and 
sight-seeing  with  his  brilliant  and  ardent  little 
traveling  companion,  was  his  Arctic  day. 

David  Lindsay,  chilled  by  the  cold  "remem 
brances,"  that  grew  cold  only  in  the  refrigerator 
of  MarcePs  translations,  gradually  ceased  to  in 
quire  after  Miss  de  la  Vera,  or  send  his  "respects" 
to  her. 

And  so  the  great  gulf  between  the  young  souls 
seemed  impassable,  until  one  desperate  leap  in  the 
dark  cleared  it. 

Meanwhile  the  years  rolled  rapidly  onward;  his 
child  was  growing  up,  and  he  himself  was  growing 
— middle-aged. 

The  last  time  he  took  her  out  to  spend  her  mid 
summer  vacation  in  traveling  with  him  through  a 
succession  of  beautiful  summer  resorts,  he  was 
thirty-five  years  old,  with  perhaps  a  dozen  silver 
threads  scattered  over  his  fine  head,  but  glistening 
with  terrible  conspicuousness  amid  the  jetty  black 
ness  of  his  hair.  She  was  just  fifteen,  tall  and  well- 
developed  for  her  years,  a  radiant  blonde,  with  a 
delicate  Grecian  profile,  fair,  clear  transparent 
complexion,  large,  soft,  dark  blue  eyes,  veiled  by 
dark  eyelashes,  and  arched  by  dark  eyebrows,  and 


GLORIA  111 

with  an  aureole  of  lightly  flowing,  pale,  golden- 
hued  hair. 

Marcel  had  not  seen  her  since  the  preceding 
Christmas  holidays,  a  period  of  nearly  seven 
months,  during  which  she  had  bloomed  from  the 
bud  to  the  half-opened  rose  of  womanhood. 

He  looked  at  her  with  surprised  and  delighted 
admiration.  He  said  nothing  on  the  subject,  ex 
pressed  no  opinion,  paid  no  compliment — only  he 
refused  more  emphatically  than  ever  his  mother's 
invitation  to  bring  his  niece  and  join  her  party 
at  Cacouna,  Canada;  and  he  resolved,  more  firmly 
than  ever,  to  keep  his  lovely  ward  to  himself. 

Indeed,  little  Gloria  desired  nothing  better.  She 
loved  her  young  uncle  with  all  the  devotion  of  a 
grateful,  loyal,  fervent  heart,  and  was  perfectly 
satisfied  with  his  companionship,  and  only  his,  in 
all  their  summer  wanderings  and  sojournings.  She 
had  no  one  else  to  love,  poor  child ;  her  Aunt  Agrip- 
pina  she  had  only  feared ;  and  her  childhood's  play 
mate,  David  Lindsay,  she  only  remembered  tender 
ly,  like  one  lost  long  ago,  or  like  the  dead.  Marcel 
was  all  in  all  to  her. 

On  this  last  occasion  of  which  I  speak,  when 
Colonel  de  Crespigney,  first  seeing  his  young  ward 
after  a  seven  months'  absence,  was  startled  into 
surprise  and  admiration  at  the  discovery  that  the 
pretty  child  had  bloomed  into  the  beautiful  girl, 
he  resolved  that  this  should  be  her  last  year  at 
school;  that  whether  she  should  graduate  or  not 
graduate  at  the  next  annual  commencement,  he 
should  withdraw  her  from  the  Sacred  Heart  Acad 
emy  and  bring  her  home  "for  good." 

And  then? 

Marcel  kept  his  future  plans  to  himself. 


GLORIA 
CHAPTER    IX 

DUMB  LOVE 

His  heart 

Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
That  ever  shone  upon  him.    He  had  looked 
Upon  it  till  it  would  not  pass  away, 
But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share; 
To  her  he  was  a  brother;  'twas  a  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him-  — 
No  more.  BYRON. 


THE  years  that  had  been  spent  by  Gloria  in  study 
during  the  school  terms,  or  in  travel  during  her  va 
cations,  had  been  passed  by  David  Lindsay  on  the 
little  sandy  island  near  the  promontory. 

This  was  his  post  of  duty.  Here  his  aged  grand 
mother  still  lived  without  any  companion  or  pro 
tector  but  himself. 

He  had  steadily  worked  on  the  fishing  landing, 
and  he  had  employed  his  limited  leisure  in  study 
ing  the  elementary  school  books  left  him  by  his  lit 
tle  playmate.  He  had  thoroughly  mastered  them 
all,  and  now  he  longed  for  more  liberty  and  better 
means  of  culture.  But,  true  sentinel  of  Provi 
dence,  he  would  not  leave  his  sterile  post  of  duty 
to  attain  them. 

He  had  long  ceased  to  ask  after  Gloria,  chilled 
by  the  coldness  with  which  his  modest  inquiries 
had  been  met  by  Colonel  de  Crespigney. 

But  he  had  never  forgotten  his  childhood  friend. 
He  cherished  the  memory  of  the  summers  passed 


GLORIA 

in  the  society  of  his  little  playmate  as  the  happiest 
portions  of  his  poor  life;  and  he  worshiped  her  im 
age,  that  in  the  light  of  that  memory  shone  like 
the  vision  of  an  angel. 

It  was  she  who  had  found  him  on  the  beach  toil 
ing  at  his  daily  task,  and  had  awakened  his  strong 
but  dormant  intelligence,  and  inspired  him  with 
the  love  and  longing  for  knowledge. 

He  owed  her  this  good,  and  was  glad  and  grateful 
to  owe  it. 

One  morning  in  June,  he  arose  early,  as  usual, 
and  looking  out  from  the  little  loft  window  of  his 
bedroom  in  the  island  cot,  he  saw  an  unusual  thing 
— a  large  schooner  at  the  old  promontory  wharf, 
and  men  landing  many  boxes,  barrels  and  kegs. 

He  had  a  job  of  work  to  cio  on  the  landing  that 
day,  so  he  dressed  himself  quickly,  ate  his  break 
fast  in  a  hurry,  got  into  his  little  old  boat,  and  in  a 
few  moments  rowed  himself  to  the  wharf. 

"What  is  all  this  to-do?"  he  inquired  of  old 
Laban,  who  was  busy  receiving  the  goods. 

"Corne  ashore  and  lend  a  hand  here!  Our  young 
lady  is  coming  home  for  good  dis  fall,  and  de  house 
an?  groun'  is  to  be  done  up  splendidly  for  her — an' 
outen  her  money,  too,  for  I  know  Marse  Colonel 
hasn't  got  none  to  spare!"  answered  the  negro,  as 
he  let  down  a  heavy  box  he  had  been  helping  to 
land. 

David  Lindsay  secured  his  boat,  sprang  on  the 
wharf,  and  gave  his  assistance  to  the  men. 

"So  Miss  de  la  Vera  is  really  coming  home?"  he 
ventured  to  ask  of  Laban. 

"Yes,  on  de  first  October !  Ole  Marse  Colonel,  he 
done  gone  to  Baltimo'  to  take  her  out'n  school  when 
de  holidays  come,  an'  dey's  gwine  for  a  trip  to  Lun- 


GLORIA 

nun  or  Europ',  or  some  o'  dem  dere  outlandish 
savidge  parts  o'  de  worl',  an'  dey's  gwine  to  be  gone 
all  de  summer;  but  dey's  comin'  back  in  de  fall; 
dat  is,  ef  so  be  de  cannibals  out  in  dem  dere  parts 
don't  kill  an'  eat  'em  fust!  I  fink  it's  downright 
dange'ous  an'  a  temptin'  o'  Providence  to  leave 
one's  'spectable  home  an'  go  traipsin'  off  to  dem 
dare  igno'nt  places — Lunnun  an'  Europ',  and  de 
like!"  exclaimed  Laban,  in  a  tone  of  disgust  and 
abhorrence. 

"Miss  de  la  Vera  going  to  Europe!"  said  David 
Lindsay,  to  himself  rather  than  to  Laban. 

"Hi !  what  I  tell  you,  boy?  Yes,  gwine  to  Europ' 
long  o'  Marse  Colonel  Discrepancy!  Gwine  to  see 
de  savidges  what  lib  across  de  big  sea.  Dare  now, 
yer  got  it.  I  calls  it  a  downright  fiyin'  inter  de  face 
ob  Providence.  I  does!  What  he  fink,  de  Lord 
A'mighty  put  de  big  sea  a  rollin'  'tween  we  an'  de 
cannibals  for  he  to  go  an'  sail  across  it  on  a  big 
ship  out'n  contrariness?"  said  Laban. 

"Is  Miss  Agrippina  to  be  one  of  the  party?"  in 
quired  the  young  man. 

"No.  Miss  Aggravater  is  gwine  to  stay  here  to 
watch  the  workmen.  Miss  Aggravater  gwine  in 
deed  !  Catch  her  at  it !  Wish  she  was,  dough !  She 
might  go,  'dout  any  danger.  Cannibals  wouldn't 
eat  her,  leastways  not  if  dey  wa'n't  uncommon 
hungry." 

David  Lindsay  said  no  more,  but  mused,  as  he 
helped  to  land  the  goods. 

"Dere's  an'  arckman  an'  a  decorum  an'  a  skip- 
pin'  gardener  comin'  down  by  de  stage-coach  to 
morrow,"  explained  Laban,  meaning  the  architect, 
decorator  and  landscape  gardener  engaged  by 
Colonel  de  Crespigney  to  transfigure  the  drearjr 


GLORIA  115 

promontory  and  its  prison-like   buildings  into  a 
habitable  home  for  the  young  heiress. 

"And  a  precious  deal  ob  money  it  is  a  gwine  to 
cost,  too,  wherever  it  comes  from^  which  I  do  Aspects 
it'll  be  out'n  Miss  Glo's  own  fortin',  for  Marse 
Colonel  Discrepancy  hasn't  got  too  much  to  tro' 
away,  dat  I  knows." 

Laban  was  mistaken.  He  had  been  misled  by 
appearances. 

Marcel  de  Crespigney,  leading  his  hermit  life  at 
the  promontory,  never  receiving  company  and  never 
going  from  home  except  when  he  went  to  take  his 
ward  from  school,  spent  little  money,  had  few 
wants,  and  lived  like  a  very  much  poorer  gentleman 
than  he  really  was. 

Hence,  in  the  years  he  had  spent  at  the  promon 
tory,  the  revenues  from  the  fisheries,  though  not 
large,  had  been  left  to  accumulate  until  they  had 
reached  a  round  sum,  which  he  determined  to  in 
vest  in  the  restoration  and  improvement  of  Prom 
ontory  Hall,  to  make  his  home  as  attractive  as  pos 
sible  to  his  beautiful  and  beloved  ward. 

The  goods  brought  to  the  wharf  were  all  landed 
and  stored  away  in  the  old  dilapidated  store-house, 
and  then  the  schooner  sailed  away,  and  David  Lind 
say  crossed  the  point  to  the  fishing  landing  and  set 
about  his  own  especial  work. 

The  next  day  the  architect,  decorator  and  land 
scape  gardener  came,  and  work  began.  The  three 
principals  went  back  and  forth  between  the  prom 
ontory  and  the  city  once  or  twice  a  month,  but 
the  workmen  remained,  and  were  quartered  in  the 
house,  to  the  great  discontent  of  Miss  Agrippina, 
who  vowed  that  she  had  never  spent  such  a  disa 
greeable  summer  in  all  the  days  of  her  life. 


116  GLORIA 

The  works  were  all  completed,  however,  by  the 
middle  of  October ;  the  gray  stone  walls  of  the  old 
house  were  completely  covered  by  a  veneering  of 
thin  white  slabs,  that  gave  the  building  the  appear 
ance  of  a  marble  palace.  French  plate-glass  win 
dows  opened  upon  piazzas  with  mosaic*  floors  and 
Corinthian  pillars.  A  mansard  roof  crowned  the 
mansion.  A  fine  garden,  with  a  parterre  of  flowers, 
bloomed  around  it.  Beyond  that,  the  once  barren 
fields  were  verdant  with  grass.  The  fishing  land 
ing  on  the  point  had  been  abolished  as  an  ugly 
nuisance,  and  a  pretty  pier,  with  an  equally  pretty 
boat-house,  had  been  erected  on  the  place.  The 
old  sea-wall  was  repaired  and  a  hedge  of  Osage 
orange  trees  was  planted  on  its  inner  side. 

Within  the  house  every  part  was  refurnished 
freshly  and  handsomely,  if  not  very  expensively. 

When  the  finishing  touch  was  put  to  the  hanging 
of  the  mirrors  and  the  drooping  of  the  curtains, 
the  decorator  and  the  upholsterer,  who  were  the 
last  of  the  artisans  to  depart,  came  to  take  leave  of 
Miss  Agrippina  de  Crespigney. 

"And  I  suppose  you  are  very  glad  to  see  the  last 
of  us,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bracket,  the  great  artist 
in  "effects." 

"I  should  rather  see  you  here  than  your  suc 
cessors,"  replied  Miss  Agrippina,  with  even  unusual 
grimness. 

"Beg  pardon?"  said  Bracket,  interrogatively. 

"I  say  I  would  rather  see  you  here  than  your  cer 
tain  successors,  the  sheriff's  officers,  for  I  expect 
they  will  be  the  next  strangers  I  shall  be  called 
upon  to  entertain !  Such  extravagance  I  never  did 
see  in  all  the  days  of  my  life!  Well,  I  thank  Provi- 


GLORIA  117 

dence  my  little  portion  is    safe    enough.     Marcel 
can't  make  ducks  and  drakes  out  of  that." 

The  two  men  bowed  themselves  out  of  Mrs. 
"Aggravated"  presence  and  went  their  way. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  and  Gloria  were  expected 
home  in  a  few  days.  They  had  returned  from  their 
European  tour  in  a  steamer  bound  for  Quebec,  and 
were  making  a  short  tour  through  Canada,  before 
completing  their  travels. 

The  first  of  October  was  a  glorious  autumn  day. 
The  sun  was  shining  with  dazzling  splendor  from 
a  deep  blue,  cloudless  sky;  a  soft,  bright  golden 
haze  hung  over  the  gorgeously  colored  woods  and 
fields. 

The  new  carriage  and  horses  had  been  sent  to 
St.  Inigoes  to  meet  the  stage  that  was  to  bring  the 
travelers  that  far  on  their  journey  home.  It  was 
from  this  circumstance  that  David  Lindsay  knew 
that  Colonel  de  Crespigney  and  Gloria  were  ex 
pected  to  arrive  that  afternoon.  He  knew,  besides, 
that  they  could  only  come  at  low  tide,  when  the 
waves  would  have  ebbed  from  the  "neck"  and  left 
the  road  free.  There  would  be  low  tide  at  half-past 
three  o'clock. 

Now  the  poor  young  fisherman  was  seized  with 
an  irresistible  longing  to  look  once  more  upon  the 
face  of  her  whom  he  had  loved  with  the  purest  and 
most  devoted  affection,  from  the  hour  of  their  child 
hood  when  she  found  him  on  the  beach  and  claimed 
him  as  her  playmate  until  this  hour,  when,  after  a 
seven  years'  absence,  she  was  returning  home.  If 
he  should  not  succeed  in  getting  a  glimpse  of  her 
now,  he  feared  that  he  might  never  see  her  again, 
for  his  occupation  on  the  promontory  was  gone, 


118  GLORIA 

since  the  fishing-landing  had  been  replaced  by  a 
pier  and  a  boat-house. 

He  took  his  fishing-rod  and  went  down  on  the 
neck  at  low  tide,  to  wait  for  her  carriage  to  pass. 

He  sat  on  a  high  rock,  and  baited  his  hook  for 
"sheep's-head,"  which  most  did  congregate  about 
that  spot.  But  before  he  could  cast  his  line  into 
the  sea,  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard  approaching. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  the  promontory  carriage 
coming  slowly  down  the  gradual  descent  leading  on 
to  the  neck.  He  drew  his  broad-brimmed  staw  hat 
low  over  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  almost  stood  still 
as  he  muttered  within  himself: 

"Will  she  recognize  'David  Lindsay?'  I  should 
know  her  anywhere,  or  after  any  length  of  time." 

The  carriage  was  coming.  It  was  wide  open,  the 
top  had  been  thrown  quite  down,  both  back  and 
front,  that  the  travelers  might  enjoy  the  fresh  air 
and  fine  scenery  of  land  and  water  on  that  delicious 
October  afternoon. 

On  the  coachman's  box  sat  Laban,  lazily  holding 
the  reins.  On  the  front  seat,  with  his  back  to  the 
negro,  sat  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  with  his  traveling 
cap  on  his  knees  before  him,  leaving  his  fine  head, 
with  his  waving  black  hair  and  beard  and  his  Ro 
man  features,  bare. 

Opposite  him,  on  the  back  seat,  sat  a  very  restless 
young  lady,  with  the  face  of  an  eager,  vivacious 
child — a  face  with  a  delicate  Grecian  profile,  a 
dainty,  rosebud  complexion,  sparkling,  glad  blue 
eyes,  and  rippling,  golden-hued  hair. 

She  was  constantly  springing  from  side  to  side, 
gazing  now  on  the  right,  now  on  the  left,  to  catch 
glimpses  of  distant  objects,  once  familiar,  but  long 
unseen. 


GLORIA  119 

"Oh,  uncle!"  she  gladly  exclaimed.  "I  can  see 
the  tall  trees  on  this  side  of  the  dee-ar  old  house !" 

"Wait  until  you  see  the  house,  my  darling!"  he 
replied,  conscious  of  the  surprise  he  should  give  her 
when  he  should  show  her  the  gray  old  "peniten 
tiary"  transfigured  to  a  white  palace. 

A  few  more  turns  of  the  wheel  and  he  exclaimed : 

"Look !" 

But  the  effect  was  not  what  he  desired  and  ex 
pected.  She  turned  on  him  a  surprised  and  dis 
tressed  face,  exclaiming : 

"Oh,  Marcel,  what  is  that?  Where  is  the  dee-ar 
old  home?" 

"There  it  is,  my  precious  child !  That  is  the  old 
home,  renovated  and  adorned,  and  made  worthy  to 
receive  its  fair  young  mistress,"  replied  the  colonel, 
with  evident  self-complacency. 

"Oh,  Marcel,  how  could  you?  How  could  you  do 
such  a  thing?"  she  cried,  reproachfully — "how 
could  you  treat  the  dee-ar  old  home  that  way?  It 
is  not  familiar;  it  is  not  the  same  at  all!  I  do  not 
know  it  at  all!  Oh,  I  am  so  disappointed  and  so 
sorry !" 

"My  dear,  I  thought  to  have  given  you  a  pleasant 
surprise.  I  thought  only  of  your  happiness,"  re 
plied  the  poor  colonel. 

"And  I  expected  to  find  the  dee-ar  old  place  just 
as  I  left  it!  Just  as  I  left  it !  And,  oh !  look  there !" 

"What  now,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  Marcel !  what  have  you  done  to  the  old  sea 
wall  and  the  dee-ar  old  fishing  landing,  where  I  and 
David  Lindsay  used  to  play  when  we  were  chil 
dren?" 

"My  dear,  that  fishing-landing  was  a  nuisance  to 
sight  and  smell.  See  what  a  pretty  pier  and  boat- 


120  GLORIA 

house  are  built  on  its  site,"  said  Colonel  de  Cres- 
pigney. 

"Oh,  Marcel!  how  could  you?  How  could  you? 
You  have  spoiled  everything!  You  have  spoiled 
everything!  You  have  killed  the  dee-ar  old  place! 
Instead  of  a  living  being  in  poor  old  clothes,  it  is  a 
dead  corpse  in  fine  dress  and  flowers.  Oh,  I  shall 
never  see  the  dee-ar  old  house  and  the  dee-ar  old 
landing  again !  If  I  had  known  this  I  would  never 
have  come  back!  I  might  as  well  have  stayed  in 
Europe.  Oh,  I  am  so  disappointed  and  so  sorry  I 
could  break  my  heart !"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  pit 
eous  look  of  distress  into  the  face  of  her  guardian ; 
but  there  she  met  an  expression  of  so  much  misery 
that  her  tone  changed  instantly  from  reproaches  to 
self-condemnation. 

"Oh,  what  a  selfish,  ungrateful  wretch  I  am, 
dee-ar  Marcel!  And  such  an  idiotic  little  fool  be 
sides.  You  did  it  all  to  please  me,  and  I  ought  to 
be  glad  and  grateful,  and  so  I  shall  be  when  I  have 
sense  enough  to  appreciate  it  all;  dee-ar  Marcel, 
forgive  me,"  she  pleaded,  bending  forward  to  lay 
her  cheek  against  his  whiskered  face,  as  she  had 
been  used  to  do  in  her  childhood. 

"I  am  only  so  grieved,  my  child,  to  have  given 
you  pain  instead  of  pleasure;  but  no  doubt  I  am 
but  a  blundering  brute !"  sighed  the  colonel. 

"Oh,  no,  no;  you  are  the  very  best  and  dearest 
and  most  unselfish  one  in  the  world.  I  cannot  re 
member  the  time  when  I  did  not  love  and  honor 
you  above  all  other  ones  on  earth !" 

"My  little  Glo>,  it  was  all  the  more  reason  I 
should  have  studied  your  nature  and  planned  for 
your  happiness  more  intelligently,"  sadly  replied 
the  colonel. 


GLORIA 

"Oh,  Marcel !  Don't  say  that,  or  I  shall  think  you 
have  not  forgiven  me.  You  have  studied  my  happi 
ness  more  than  I  deserved.  You  have  done  the  very 
best  for  me  always.  In  regard  to  these  changes, 
they  certainly  do  make  a  great  improvement,  which 
I  shall  be  sure  to  appreciate  and  enjoy.  It  was 
only  just  at  first,  when  I  was  looking  to  see  the 
dee-ar  old  place  in  its  old  familiar  face,  that  the 
change  struck  me  as  a  disappointment,  and  I  am 
such  a  fool  for  blurting  out  my  very  first  thoughts 
and  feelings!"  said  Gloria,  caressing  her  uncle. 

She  was  disappointed,  poor  girl;  for  to  return 
some  time  to  the  old  home  and  the  old  life  had  been 
the  fond  dream  of  the  young,  faithful  heart  in  the 
long  years  of  her  exile  and  homesickness ;  and  now 
to  return  and  find  all  changed,  even  for  the  better, 
was  a  painful  shock. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  knew  it  now,  and  could  not 
forgive  himself  for  not  anticipating  such  an  effect. 

"Do  not  look  so  grave,  Marcel,  or  I  shall  think 
you  never  will  forget  my  folly,"  she  pleaded.  "Lis 
ten,  now,  and  let  me  tell  you  something,  Marcel! 
Seeing  the  dee-ar  old  place  all  freshened  up,  and 
decorated  and  changed  into  something  else,  was  just 
as  if,  when  I  was  looking  for  you,  and  expecting  to 
see  you  as  you  used  to  look — why — instead  of  my 
dee-ar,  old,  black-bearded  darkey  of  an  uncle,  I  had 
found  a  golden-haired,  rosy-cheeked  young  fairy 
prince!  There!  That  expresses  my  feelings  in  re 
gard  to  seeing  the  dee-ar  old  home  changed  into 
something  else !" 

De  Crespigney  smiled;  he  felt  pleased  and  flat 
tered  ;  he  also  understood  her  better  and  loved  her 
more,  as  he  remembered  that  she  had  always  cher 
ished  a  sweet,  loyal  love  for  old  familiar  friends  and 


GLORIA 

places.  He  suddenly  recalled  the  days  when  he 
had  first  known  her  as  an  infant  of  three  years  old, 
when  some  one  had  broken  the  head  of  her  doll,  and 
he  himself  had  bought  her  a  splendid  young  lady 
of  waxen  mould  with  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  hair, 
and  dressed  in  silk  attire,  how  she  had  hugged  her 
poor  old  headless  dolly  to  her  faithful  little  heart 
and  refused  to  part  with  it  in  favor  of  the  radiant 
new  one. 

And  later  when  she  first  arrived  at  the  Promon 
tory,  bringing  a  little  mongrel  dog,  who  died  soon 
after,  and  to  comfort  her  he  brought  home  a  little 
white  poodle,  how  sadly  she  turned  away  from  the 
new  claimant  of  her  notice,  murmuring,  "Oh,  uncle, 
I  can't  love  another  little  dog  so  soon,"  though 
a  few  days  afterwards  she  picked  up  the  little 
poodle  and  petted  him,  muttering,  "Poor  Carlo,  it 
wasn't  your  fault  that  poor  little  Flora  died,  was 
it?"  and  loved  him  ever  afterwards. 

About  the  same  time,  reading  the  story  of 
"Beauty  and  the  Beast/'  she  had  sighed,  and  said, 
"If  I  had  been  Beauty  I  would  have  loved  the  dee-ar 
old  Beast;  I  would  not  have  wanted  to  have  his 
head  cut  off  to  change  him  into  anything  else,  not 
even  a  fairy  prince!" 

All  these  traits  of  her  childhood  recurred  to  the 
mind  of  De  Crespigney,  as  he  listened  to  the  little 
penitent's  frank  confession. 

"I  understand,  dear  heart !  I  understand  perfect 
ly,"  he  said,  as  he  raised  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips. 

She  smiled  radiantly  on  him,  and  then  turned 
and  looked  about  her,  as  if  in  search  of  other 
changes. 


GLORIA 

Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  form  of  a  young  man 
seated  on  a  rock,  and  apparently  engaged  in  fishing. 

She  bent  forward  and  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  Marcel,  there  is  David  Lindsay !  I  know  it  is 
David  Lindsay!  He  has  grown  tall;  of  course,  I 
expected  to  find  him  grown  up,  but  he  has  the  same 
face  and  eyes  that  I  should  know  if  I  should  meet 
him  in  Africa.  Oh!  I  thank  the  Lord  he  is  not 
changed  into  anything  else !  Oh,  Marcel !  I  must 
speak  to  David  Lindsay.  Here,  Laban,  stop  the 
horses !  Stop  them  right  here !" 

The  negro  coachman  touched  his  hat  and  drew 
up  opposite  the  rock  on  which  the  young  man  sat, 
and  within  a  few7  feet  of  it. 

She  leaned  out,  and  called : 

"David  Lindsay!  David  Lindsay!  Oh,  David 
Lindsay,  please  come  here!" 

He  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  paled 
and  shook  with  emotion  as  he  drew  in  his  fishing- 
line,  laid  it  down  beside  him,  arose,  and  approached 
the  carriage. 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  how  do  you  do?  I  am  so 
overjoyed  to  see  you  once  more!  Why!  don't  you 
remember  me — your  old  playmate  of  the  fishing- 
landing?"  she  inquired,  seeing  that  he  hesitated  to 
take  the  hand  she  had  offered  him. 

He  took  the  delicately  gloved  fingers  then,  how 
ever,  and  bowed  over  them. 

"Why — don't  you  remember  the  old  sea-wall,  and 
the  old  broken  boat,  and  the  good  times  we  used  to 
have  there,  and  the  little  dinners  we  used  to  cook 
on  the  beach,  and  the  little  schools  we  used  to  keep? 
Don't  you  remember,  David  Lindsay?"  she  gladly 
inquired,  with  a  childlike  eagerness,  as  she  smiled 
upon  him. 


GLORIA 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss,  I  remember  well,"  he  answered, 
in  a  low,  subdued  voice. 

"Oh,  I  think  that  was  the  happiest  time  in  my 
whole  life,  David  Lindsay!  Don't  you?" 

"It  was  the  happiest  time  in  mine,  Miss,"  he  re 
plied,  in  the  same  subdued  tone,  as  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  ground,  not  trusting  them  to  look 
at  her  again. 

"And  how  is  dear  Granny  Lindsay?  Is  she  still  at 
the  cot  on  the  isle?  Is  she  as  busy  and  active  as 
ever?"  inquired  Gloria,  with  new  interest  in  her 
tone. 

"She  is  as  well  as  she  can  be  at  seventy  years  of 
age,  but  more  infirm  than  when  you  knew  her  last. 
She  lives  at  the  cot  on  the  isle,  and  she  is  as  busy, 
but  not  as  active,  as  ever,"  he  answered,  slowly  and 
gravely. 

"Oh,  what  happy,  happy  days  we  used  to  have  at 
her  house,  David  Lindsay!  Such  happy,  happy 
days!  Do  you  remember  them?" 

Did  he  not  remember  them? 

Ah,  yes !  but,  with  her  bright  face  beaming  down 
upon  him,  bringing  the  light  of  those  days  so  vivid 
ly  before  him,  with  the  memory  of  their  frank, 
childish  affection  then,  and  the  consciousness  of  the 
gulf  that  opened  between  them  now,  it  had  grown 
more  and  more  difficult  for  him  to  answer  her.  Now 
he  seemed  tongue-tied. 

"Do  you  think  she  will  let  me  come  and  spend  a 
day  with  her,  just  as  I  used  to  do?  Oh,  how  I 
should  like  to  do  so !  It  would  be  so  like  old  times ! 
Would  she  let  me,  David  Lindsay?" 

"Indeed,  she  would  be  very  happy  to  do  so,"  re 
plied  the  young  man,  partly  recovering  his  voice. 

"Well,  then,  wrill  you  ask  her  if  I  may  come  to- 


GLORIA  125 

morrow?    And  will  you  row  me  over,  as  you  used 
to  do,  David  Lindsay?" 
."I  shall  be  too  happy  to  do  so,  Miss  de  la  Vera." 

"Ah,  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  dee-ar  Granny 
Lindsay,  and  revive  one  of  those  old-time,  happy, 
happy  days !"  exclaimed  Gloria. 

"My  dear,"  said  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  gravely, 
"the  tide  is  coming  in,  and  we  are  not  more  than 
half-way  across.  It  is  not  safe  to  remain  here  a 
moment  longer.  We  can  scarcely  cross  before  the 
road  will  be  six  feet  under  water !" 

"And  David  Lindsay  has  to  walk !  He  will  never 
be  able  to  cross  in  safety !  And  it  is  I  who  have  kept 
him  loitering  here!  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  But  you 
must  not  walk,  indeed,  David  Lindsay !  Get  in  here 
and  sit  beside  me,  if  you  please.  Yes,  but  I  insist 
upon  it  now!"  she  added,  seeing  that  he  did  not 
comply  with  her  request. 

"You  had  better  do  so,  Lindsay,"  coldly  added 
Colonel  de  Crespigney,  as  he  left  his  own  seat  and 
sat  down  beside  Gloria,  leaving  the  front  cushion 
free  for  the  young  man. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  Miss  de  la  Vera,  and  you 
also,  sir;  but  I  can  easily  walk  the  way  before  the 
road  will  be  covered,"  replied  young  Lindsay,  as  he 
bowed  and  retreated  from  the  carriage. 

"  *A  willful  man  must  have  his  way,'  "  said  the 
colonel. 

"Oh,  Marcel,  you  did  not  invite  him  half  cor 
dially  enough !"  cried  Gloria.  "And  suppose  he  was 
to  be  overtaken  by  the  tide  and  swept  away !" 

"No  danger.  Look  there,"  said  the  colonel,  point 
ing  to  the  road  before  the  carriage,  down  which 
David  Lindsay,  with  his  fishing  tackle  in  his  hand, 
was  striding  at  a  good  rate. 


126  GLORIA 

The  horses  were  now  started  and  driven  off  at  a 
speed.  They  passed  the  young  man,  who  raised  his 
hat  as  they  whirled  out  of  sight. 

"Marcel,  I  will  never  forgive  you  if  David  Lind 
say  is  drowned !"  exclaimed  Gloria. 

"No  danger,  Miss!"  volunteered  old  Laban  from 
the  box.  "There  is  a  plenty  o'  time,  an'  he's  a 
famous  hand  at  walking." 

"Foot  at  walking,  you  mean,  old  man,  don't 
you?"  inquired  Colonel  de  Crespigney. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  jest,  Marcel,  when  any 
fellow-creature,  not  to  say  David  Lindsay,  is  in 
peril,"  exclaimed  Gloria,  reproachfully. 

"Do  you,  then,  suppose,  my  dear,  that  T  am  capa 
ble  of  jesting  with  the  peril  of  any  fellow-creature? 
Is  not  my  jesting  proof  enough  that  there  is  no 
peril?"  inquired  the  colonel,  deprecatingly. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  had  twisted  her 
head  quite  around  to  look  back  on  the  figure  of  the 
young  man,  who  was  striding  fast  behind  the  car 
riage. 

And  during  the  remainder  of  their  rapid  drive 
she  continued  from  time  to  time  to  look  back  at 
the  striding  figure,  until  at  length  they  had  crossed, 
the  long  stretch  of  road  and  reached  the  higher  and 
broader  portion  of  the  promontory  that  was  so  soon 
to  be  turned  by  the  high  tide  into  an  island. 

Then  for  the  last  time  she  looked  and  saw  that 
though  the  lowest  part  of  the  isthmus  was  covered 
with  the  waves,  yet  as  David  Lindsay  was  already 
ascending  the  rise  towards  the  promontory,  he  was 
out  of  danger. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  they  reached  the  house, 
which  was  already  lighted  up  for  the  reception  of 
the  travelers. 


GLORIA 

Miss  Agrippina  de  Crespigney,  attended  by  So 
phia  and  Lamia,  stood  in  the  hall  to  welcome  them 
home. 

She  took  Gloria  by  the  waist,  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks  and  said: 

"You  are  looking  very  well,  my  dear.  How  much 
you  have  grown !" 

And  then  Gloria  returned  her  caresses  and  her 
compliments,  saying: 

"You  are  looking  finely,  aunt.  You  are  not 
changed  at  all.  I  think  no  one  is  changed  except 
David  Lindsay  and  myself.  I  think  people  must 
grow  up  and  stay  so  until  they  become  very  old." 

But  quick  Miss  Grip  had  already  turned  to  her 
nephew  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  left  Gloria 
free  to  receive  the  welcome  of  her  colored  friends, 

"How  you  has  growed !  My  patience  alibe,  how 
you  has  growed,  honey !"  was  the  greeting  of  'Phia. 

"  'Deed  I  is  mighty  proud  to  see  you,  Miss  Glo?, 
'deed  is  I !"  was  the  cordial  exclamation  of  Lamia* 

"You  had  better  prove  your  feelings  in  a  more 
practical  manner  by  showing  your  mistress  up  to 
her  room,"  said  prompt  Miss  Grip. 

"Come  on,  Miss  GloM"  said  the  unceremonious 
girl. 

"Yes,  indeed,  Lamia,  I  do  wish  to  lay  off  my 
wraps.  I  have  been  wearing  them  so  long,"  re 
sponded  the  young  lady,  as  she  followed  her  maid 
up  the  broad  staircase  to  the  large  southeast  room 
overlooking  the  sea,  which  had  been  hers  in  her 
childhood. 

"Ain't  it  just  lovely,  Miss  Glo'?"  triumphantly 
exclaimed  the  girl,  as  she  threw  open  the  door  and 
displayed  the  renovated  and  decorated  chamber, 
blooming  like  a  rose  in  its  pink  silk  and  white  lace 


128  GLORIA 

curtains,  its'  pink  velvet  and  white  satin  chairs,  and 
its  pink  and  white  walls  and  carpet. 

"Isn't  it  just  lovely,  now,  Miss  Glo'?"  repeated 
the  pleased  niaid. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is;  but  it  isn't  like 
my  dee-ar  old  room  at  all !  Not  even  the  fire-place !" 
she  sighed,  as  she  turned  to  the  glowing  coals  on  a 
polished  steel  grate  that  had  replaced  the  blazing 
hickory  logs  of  the  old  open  chimney  that  was  so 
familiar  to  her  childhood. 

"Why,  you  don't  like  it,  Miss  Glo'!"  exclaimed 
the  girl  in  surprise  and  disappointment. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do;  but — it  is  not  like  home  at  all! 
Nothing  is  like  home,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  come 
into  a  strange  house,  and  should  never  reach  home 
again!"  sighed  the  homesick  child,  as  she  laid  her 
hat  on  the  pretty  counterpane  of  white  crochet  over 
pink  silk. 

"And  we  took  such  pains  to  please  you !"  said  the 
maid,  sorrowfully. 

"Poor  Lamia !  Well,  I  am  pleased,  only  I  would 
like  to  have  seen  my  old  room  once  more  just  as  it 
was.  Come  now  and  help  me  to  dress.  My  boxes 
have  arrived,  I  suppose.  They  were  sent  by  express 
to  Leonardtown  last  week." 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss,  soon  as  ebber  de  letter  an'  de  keys 
come  by  mail,  us  sent  daddy  wid  de  wagon  to  Len- 
nuntown  to  fetch  de  boxes  home,  which  dey  rove 
safe  an'  soun',  an'  I  unpacked  dem  an'  put  all  de 
fings  'way  in  de  boorers  an'  ward'obes." 

"That  was  right.  Just  give  me  the  blue  cashmere 
suit  and  the  lace  that  is  with  it." 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  the  young  lady  soon  com 
pleted  her  toilet  and  went  down  stairs  to  join  her 
aunt  and  uncle  in  the  drawing-room. 


GLORIA  129 

Dinner  was  soon  afterward  served. 

When  that  was  over,  the  small  party  returned  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  Colonel  de  Crespigney 
wished  to  show  his  niece  the  new  grand  piano  that 
he  had  selected  for  her.  Here  was  also  a  music- 
stand  supplied  with  the  works  of  the  great  masters. 

He  opened  the  piano  and  led  her  to  it. 

She  seated  herself  and  touched  the  keys,  and 
found  the  instrument  to  be  one  of  very  superior 
tone. 

She  spent  the  remainder  of  the  evening  in  play 
ing  and  singing  the  favorite  airs  and  songs  of  her 
uncle.  Her  voice  was  a  pure,  clear  soprano,  and 
her  soul  was  always  in  her  song.  Hence,  though 
she  might  never  have  achieved  a  grand  success  as  a 
public  singer,  she  was  very  effective  as  a  parlor 
performer. 

At  the  close  of  this  musical  entertainment  the 
small  party  separated  and  retired  to  bed. 

And  so  ended  the  day  of  Gloria's  return  home. 


CHAPTER   X 

MYSTERIOUS  DANGER 

Something  of  a  cold  mistrust, 
Wonderful,  and  most  unjust, 
Something  of  a  surly  fear 
Fills  my  soul  when  he  is  near. 

CAROLINE  NORTON. 

GLORIA  did  not  carry  out  her  intention  of  going 
to  Sandy  Isle  on  the  next  day  to  see  her  old  friend, 
Granny  Lindsay. 


130  GLORIA 

The  weather  had  changed  in  the  night,  and  a  week 
of  steady  rain  set  in. 

The  small  family  were  confined  to  the  house,  and 
had  to  find  what  amusement  they  could  within 
doors. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  found  occupation  and  en 
tertainment  enough  in  unpacking  his  books  from 
the  boxes  in  which  they  had  been  carefully  put 
away  to  keep  them  safe  from  the  workmen  who 
were  in  the  house,  engaged  in  the  work  of  restora 
tion,  during  his  absence  in  Europe  with  his  ward. 

Gloria  found  interesting  employment  in  turning 
over  and  inspecting  the  beautiful  wardrobe  she  had 
brought  over  from  London  and  Paris;  and  after 
wards  in  rambling  through  all  the  rooms  of  the 
rejuvenated  old  house,  to  which  she  could  scarcely 
become  reconciled. 

"Oh,  it  is  all  very  fine,  I  dare  say,  and  it  was  very 
good  of  the  colonel,  and  I  ought  to  admire  it  ?ery 
much,  but  it  reminds  me  of  the  melancholy  old 
ladies  I  have  seen  at  public  places,  all  painted  up 
with  rouge  and  pearl  powder.  The  old  house  was 
more  respectable  and  even  more  beautiful  and 
artistic  in  its  old  aspect." 

Miss  de  Crespigney  engaged  herself  in  prepara 
tions  for  her  departure,  for  she  was  going  South  to 
spend  the  winter  with  her  brother  and  sister-in- 
law,  and  had  delayed  her  departure  only  to  receive 
Colonel  de  Crespigney  and  Gloria  on  their  return 
to  Promontory  Hall. 

By  the  time  that  the  rainy  season  came  to  an  end 
and  the  sun  of  the  Indian  summer  shone  out  again, 
Colonel  de  Crespigney's  books  were  all  unpacked, 
catalogued,  and  restored  to  their  niches  in  the  new 
ly  furnished  library ;  Miss  de  la  Vera's  personal  ef- 


GLORIA  131 

fects  were  inspected  and  arranged,  and  Miss  de 
Crespigney's  preparations  for  her  departure  were 
complete. 

"I  have  reconstructed  your  household  govern 
ment,  and  trained  your  servants  so  well  in  the  seven 
years  that  I  have  passed  in  this  house,  Marcel,  that 
now  I  think  affairs  will  run  quite  smoothly  in  the 
present  groove  with  only  the  nominal  mistress  of 
the  house  that  the  little  countess  will  make.  I 
think,  however,  that  you  should  take  your  niece  to 
Washington  in  December,  and  spend  the  fashion 
able  season  there  with  her,  where  she  may  have 
some  opportunity  of  marriage,  suitable  to  her  rank 
and  wealth,"  said  Miss  de  Crespigney  to  the  colonel 
in  a  tete-a-tete  she  held  with  him  on  the  day  before 
she  was  to  leave  the  promontory. 

"Gloria  is  but  sixteen.  There  is  time  enough  five 
years  hence  to  think  of  marrying  her  off,"  replied 
Colonel  de  Crespigney,  wincing,  for  he  was  less  in 
clined  than  ever  to  display  his  treasure  to  the 
world ;  more  disposed  than  before  to  keep  her  all  to 
himself. 

Late  in  the  day,  Miss  de  Crespigney  said  to  the 
young  lady: 

"You  must  make  your  uncle  take  you  to  Wash 
ington  for  the  season,  my  dear.  It  is  not  right  that 
you  should  be  buried  in  your  youth  in  this  remote 
and  solitary  home.  You  are  the  Countess  de  la 
Vera,  and  should  be  brought  in  society  suited  to 
your  rank.  My  sister-in-law,  Madame  de  Cres 
pigney,  will  be  in  Washington  this  winter.  She 
has  no  unmarried  daughters  of  her  own,  and  I  am 
sure  she  would  feel  honored  to  chaperone  the  Coun 
tess  Gloria.  Make  your  uncle  take  you  to  Wash 
ington  this  winter,  my  dear." 


132  GLORIA 

"Oh,  Aunt  Agrippiua,  I  thank  you  for  your  kind 
ness  in  thinking  about  me  so  much,  and  I  assure 
you  that  Marcel  would  do  anything  to  please  me 
without  being  made  to  do  it ;  but  really  I  do  want 
to  stay  home  and  be  quiet  this  winter.  Ever  since 
I  left  school — the  first  of  July — I  have  been  going 
to  places  all  the  time.  I  am  so  tired  of  going  to  so 
many  places  and  seeing  so  many  things.  I  don't 
want  to  go  away  again  for  ever  so  long.  I  want  to 
stay  here  and  see  all  my  dee-ar  old  friends  and  live 
the  dee-ar  old  times  over  again,"  pleaded  Gloria. 

"My  child,  you  can  never  live  the  old  times  over 
again  any  more  than  you  can  go  back  to  your  baby 
hood  and  live  that  over  again.  And  as  for  old 
friends,  Gloria,  you  have  none." 

"Oh,  yes !  there  is  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay  and 
David  Lindsay !" 

"Not  the  right  sort  of  friends  for  the  Countess 
de  la  Vera.  But  there  is  all  the  more  reason  why 
you  should  go  to  Washington.  I  will  speak  to  my 
nephew  again  on  the  subject,"  said  Miss  de  Cres- 
pigney. 

And  she  did  speak  to  the  colonel  that  same  after 
noon,  but  without  effect. 

No  doubt  if  she  had  stayed  longer  she  might  have 
gained  her  point. 

"For  if  a  man  talk  a  very  long  time,"  &c. 

I  have  quoted  that  piece  of  wisdom  already.  Miss 
de  Crespigney  had  not  "a  very  long  time"  to  "talk." 
8he  was  to  leave  Promontory  Hall  the  next  morn 
ing. 

Her  last  "official"  act  that  night  was  to  call  the 
three  servants  into  the  dining-room  and  give  them 


GLORIA  133 

a  final  lecture  on  their  duties  to  themselves,  to  each 
other,  and  to  their  master  and  mistress. 

"And  let  me  impress  this  fact  upon  you,"  she 
said,  gravely;  "the  young  lady  of  this  house  is  not 
a  Marylander.  She  is  not  even  an  American.  She 
is  a  Portuguese  West  Indian,  and  a  countess  by 
birth  and  inheritance.  You  are  not  to  address  her, 
or  speak  of  her,  as  Miss  Glo'.  I  won't  have  it !  You 
are  to  speak  of  her  as  the  Countess  Gloria.  Remem 
ber  that  I" 

Then,  after  some  other  instructive  discourses,  the 
old  lady  distributed  some  presents  among  them  and 
dismissed  the  party. 

The  next  morning  Miss  de  Crespigney  left  Prom 
ontory  Hall  in  the  old  family  traveling  carriage, 
driven  by  Laban  as  far  as  St.  Inigoes,  where  she 
was  to  meet  the  stage-coach  that  was  to  take  her  to 
Baltimore. 

Her  directions  to  the  servants  in  regard  to  Miss 
de  la  Vera's  Portuguese  birth  and  rank  were  remem 
bered  with  simple  indignation  by  the  two  women, 
Thia  and  Lamia,  who  did  not  know  a  Portuguese 
from  a  portemonnaie,  or  a  countess  from  a  counter 
pane. 

"Call  our  Miss  Glo'  countess,  indeed !  ShaVt  do 
no  sich  fing!  'Deed,  I  fink  it  would  be  downright 
undespectful  to  call  our  young  lady  countess,  as 
nebber  had  the  trouble  ob  countin'  de  chickens,  or 
de  ducks,  or  any  fing  on  de  place,  all  her  blessed 
life,"  exclaimed  'Phia,  wrathfully  beating  out  her 
excitement  on  the  feather  pillow  of  the  bed  she  was 
helping  her  daughter  to  make  up. 

"What  Miss  Aggravater  means  by  it,  anyways?" 
scornfully  inquired  Lamia. 


134  GLORIA 

"Contrariness,  nuffin'  else!"  replied  Thia,  giving 
the  pillow  a  portentous  whack  with  her  fists. 

And  from  that  time  they  continued  to  call  the 
golden-haired  girl  Miss  Glo',  and  nothing  else. 

Meanwhile  Gloria  and  her  uncle  lived  together 
da/  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  and  never 
seemed  to  tire  of  each  other,  or  to  desire  any  other 
society. 

She  had  none  of  the  cares  that  might  have  fallen 
on  her  as  the  young  mistress  of  the  house. 

'Phia  had  been  trained  by  Miss  "Aggravater"  into 
a  model  manager,  and  was  quite  capable  of  assum 
ing  all  the  responsibility  and  discharging  all  the 
duties  of  a  good  housekeeper. 

Thus  the  young  lady,  while  holding  all  the  au 
thority  of  the  mistress,  enjoyed  all  the  freedom  of 
a  guest. 

Every  morning  after  breakfast  she  brought  her 
little  fancy  work-basket  down  into  the  library,  and 
sat  in  a  low  chair  by  the  table  where  her  uncle  was 
reading  or  writing. 

She  sat  very  quietly  working,  as  she  used  in  her 
childhood  to  sit  playing.  She  never  disturbed  him 
by  a  word  or  a  movement,  being  contented  only  to 
remain  near  him. 

Yet  whatever  might  be  his  occupation,  of  reading 
or  of  writing,  he  was  sure  to  share  it  with  her.  It 
was  in  this  way :  If  he  happened  to  be  engaged  with 
a  book,  he  would  read  choice  selections  from  his 
author,  and  then  draw  her  thoughts  forth  in  praise 
or  censure  of  the  subject,  or  its  treatment.  If  he 
were  engaged  with  his  pen,  he  would  read  to  her 
what  he  had  written,  and  invite  her  to  suggest  any 
alteration  or  improvement  that  might  occur  to  her 
mind. 


GLORIA  135 

And  he  was  often  amused  and  sometimes  startled 
by  the  brightness  and  originality  of  her  thoughts 
and  criticisms. 

Sometimes  he  would  pause  in  his  employment 
and  sit  and  silently  watch  her  at  her  pretty  work  of 
silk  embroidery.  At  such  times,  she  worked  more 
diligently  than  at  others,  keeping  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  needle,  and  never  daring  to  raise  them  to 
his  face. 

If  you  had  asked  her — why  was  this?  she  could 
not  haje  told  you.  She  did  not  know  herself.  She 
only  knew,  or  rather  felt,  that,  at  such  moments,  to 
meet  MarcePs  eyes  made  her  own  eyes  sink  to  the 
floor,  and  her  cheeks  to  burn  with  confusion,  in 
dignation  and  misery. 

She  hated  herself  for  this  unkind  emotion,  which 
she  could  neither  comprehend  nor  conquer. 

"Why,"  she  asked  of  her  heart  in  vain — "why 
should  I  feel  so  wounded,  insulted  and  offended  at 
the  steady  gaze  of  dee-ar  Marcel,  who  loves  me  so 
truly,  and  whom  I  love  and  honor  more  than  any 
other  one  in  the  whole  world?" 

She  could  not  answer  her  own  question.  She  only 
felt  that  she  hated  herself  for  entertaining  such  feel 
ings,  and  sometimes  even  hated  her  dee-ar  Marcel 
for  inspiring  them. 

From  some  strange  intuition  she  had  ceased  to 
call  him  "Marcel,  dee-ar,"  with  tender  slowness 
drawing  out  the  word  into  two  syllables,  and  dwell 
ing  with  pathetic  fondness  on  the  first.  She  called 
him  "uncle,  dear,"  with  respectful  brevity,  and 
nothing  more. 

On  one  occasion,  while  she  was  sitting  at  his  feet 
in  the  library,  engaged  with  her  flower  embroidery 
in  colored  silks,  and  not  daring  to  raise  her  eyes, 


136  GLORIA 

because  her  burning  cheeks  and  shrinking  heart  as 
sured  her  that  he  had  ceased  reading  and  was  gaz 
ing  steadily  upon  her,  he  said,  with  a  touching  sad 
ness: 

"I  fear  that  you  are  often  dull  in  this  lonely 
house,  dear  child." 

"Oh,  no,  uncle,  never  dull,"  she  answered,  with 
out  raising  her  eyes. 

"And  never  weary  of  a  tiresome  bookworm  like 
me?" 

"Never,  uncle,  dear,"  she  answered,  kindly, 
touched  by  the  pathos  of  his  tone,  but  half  afraid 
of  the  pity  that  she  felt  for  him,  lest  it  should  Jead 
her  into  some  vague,  ill-understood  wrong  or  woe. 

"Gloria,"  he  said,  in  a  strangely  earnest  tone. 

"Well,  uncle?"  she  breathed,  in  fear  of — she  knew 
not  what. 

"Look  at  me,  my  darling." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  but  when  she  met 
his  glance  she  dropped  them  immediately. 

"Gloria !" 

"What  is  it,  uncle,  dear?" 

"I  wish  you  would  not  call  me  'uncle.'  I  am  not 
your  uncle,  child.  Do  you  not  know  it?" 

She  did  not  speak  or  look  up,  but  worked  steadily 
on  her  embroidery,  feeling  that  the  atmosphere  op 
pressed  her  so  that  she  could  scarcely  breathe. 

"Do  you  not  know  that  I  am  not  your  uncle, 
Gloria?  Do  you  not  know  that  I  am  not  the  least 
kin  to  you?  Answer  me,  my  darling." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  the  perplexed  girl,  scarcely 
above  her  breath. 

"Then  you  do  not  love  me  the  less  for  not  being 
your -own  uncle?" 

"Oh,  no,"  breathed  the  girl. 


GLORIA  137 

"While  I Ah!  my  child,  I  thank  Heaven 

every  day  of  my  life  that  I  am  no  blood  relation  of 
yours,"  he  added  earnestly. 

She  heard  him  with  a  shudder,  but  made  no  re- 

piy- 

"You  must  not  call  me  uncle  any  longer,  my 
darling.  You  must  call  me  'Marcel/  as  you  used 
to  do.  Do  you  hear  me,  Gloria?  Will  you  call  me 
'Marcel,'  as  of  old?" 

She  felt  herself  almost  suffocating  under  the  pas 
sion  of  his  gaze,  but  she  forced  herself  to  answer, 
though  in  the  lowest  tone: 

"I  cannot  do  so  now." 

"But  why?  You  used  to  do  so,  my  dearest.  You 
used  to  call  me  nothing  but  Marcel." 

"That  was — when  I  was  a  baby — or  a  child.  I 
called  you — what  I  heard  others  call  you — as  chil 
dren  will.  I  knew  no  better  then.  I  know  better 
now,"  she  answered,  with  a  fruitless  attempt  to 
speak  firmly;  for  her  voice  sank  and  almost  ex 
pired,  as  she  wished  herself  a  thousand  miles  from 
her  present  seat,  yet  felt  that  she  had  no  power  to 
flee. 

"But,  my  dear,  you  cannot  go  on  calling  me  uncle, 
for  I  am  not  your  uncle,"  he  answered,  really 
pleased  and  flattered  by  the  distress  that  he  fatally 
misunderstood,  because,  in  fact,  it  resembled  the 
sweet  confusion  of  the  girls  who  had  been  "in  love" 
with  him  in  his  earlier  youth.  "No,  Gloria,  you 
must  not  call  me  uncle,"  he  repeated. 

"Then  I  must  call  you  Colonel  de  Crespigney," 
she  replied,  without  raising  her  oppressed  eyes. 

"Never !  that  would  be  almost  as  bad  as  the  other. 
No,  you  must  call  me  Marcel,  as  you  used  to  do. 


138  GLORIA 

How  sweetly  the  syllables  fell,  bird-like,  bell-like, 
flute-like,  from  your  lips,  my  darling." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  wished  she  had  the 
power  to  rise  and  go  away. 

"Gloria,"  he  said,  dropping  his  voice  to  the  low 
est  tone — "Gloria,  I  told  you  just  now  that  I 
thanked  Heaven  there  was  no  blood  relationship 
between  you  and  me !  Can  you  divine,  my  love,  why 
I  do  so  thank  Heaven  that  we  are  of  no  kin?'* 

She  trembled,  but  could  not  speak  or  move. 

"Can  you  hot,  my  child?  Ah!  you  do!  you  do!" 
he  sighed,  seizing  both  her  hands  and  trying  to 
draw  her  towards  him. 

The  touch  gave  her  the  power  she  needed. 

"No !  I  don't !  I  don't  know  what  you  mean !"  she 
suddenly  cried,  snatching  her  hands  from  his,  start 
ing  up  and  rushing  out  of  the  room.  Nor  did  she 
stop  until  she  had  gained  the  solitude  of  her  own 
chamber,  where  she  banged  to  and  locked  the  door, 
and  then  sank  half  dead  upon  her  sofa. 

She  really  did  not  know,  and  did  not  want  to 
know,  what  her  guardian  meant  by  his  strange 
speech  any  more  than  by  his  strange  manner.  "She 
understood  a  horror  in  his  words,  but  not  his 
words."  She  felt  a  sudden  abhorrence  of  his  per 
son  that  sent  her  flying  from  his  presence. 

And  now,  in  the  seclusion  of  her  own  room,  her 
overwrought  feelings  broke  forth  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

These  relieved  her,  and  then  she  began  to  ask 
herself  the  cause  of  all  this  excessive  emotion.  She 
could  discover  no  reasonable  cause.  Her  guardian 
had  been  as  kind,  or  even  kinder,  than  usual.  He 
had  only  looked  at  her  very  intently,  and  asked  her 
if  she  knew  why  he  thanked  Heaven  that  there  was 


GLORIA  139 

no  blood  relationship  between  them;  and  he  iiad 
taken  her  hand  in  his  to  draw  her  nearer  to  him. 

Now,  what  was  there  in  all  this  to  turn  her  sick 
even  to  faint  ness?  To  fill  her  with  terror  and  dis 
gust?  To  make  her  fling  his  hands  off  and  rush 
from  the  room? 

She  could  not  tell.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
had  behaved  very  rudely,  harshly,  unkindly !  What 
ever  her  guardian  had  meant  by  his  strange  be 
havior,  he  had  meant  no  evil.  How  could  he  mean 
evil?  No,  he  had  meant  none;  of  that  she  felt  quite 
sure  all  the  time.  And  yet  she  had  rushed  rudely 
away  from  him,  and  hurt  him  who  had  never  meant 
anything  other  than  good  to  her,  and  she  felt  very 
sorry  for  her  own  conduct. 

"I  am  too  impulsive.  Uncle  always  told  me  I 
was  too  impulsive.  Even  the  mother-superior  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  Convent  school  used  to  tell  me 
that  unless  I  watched  and  prayed  I  would  some 
day  commit  some  fatal  error  on  an  impulse  that 
might  ruin  my  life.  Yes,  I  am  too  impulsive.  I 
must  learn  self-control,  and  not  worry  others  be 
cause  I  cannot  understand  them.  I  have  hurt  my 
good  uncle,  who  means  me  nothing  but  good,  and 
I  must  try  to  make  amends  to  him,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

But — she  called  him  her  "good  uncle."  and  not 
her  "dee-ar  Marcel,"  and  even  in  her  tender  com 
punction  she  felt  a  latent  misgiving,  a  vague  fear 
of  some  wrong  or  woe  into  which  this  sweet  peni 
tence  might  lead  her. 

"If  I  only  had  a  mother,"  she  sighed. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  library,  Marcel  de  Crespigney 
held  an  interview  with  himself  full  of  bitter  self- 
reproach  and  lamentations. 


140  GLORIA 

"I  have  alarmed  and  repelled  her  by  too  sudden 
an  approach.  And  yet  I  thought  that  six  months 
of  the  close  companionship  and  easy  intercourse  of 
travel,  toegther  with  the  affection  and  confidence 
she  has  always  shown  to  me,  had  prepared  the  way 
to  a  nearer  and  dearer  union !  But  I  have  been  too 
impatient,  too  hasty,  too  importunate.  I  should 
have  approached  her  gradually,  gently.  I  should 
have  remembered  that  she  is  not  quite  like  other 
girls.  She  is  very  delicate,  dainty,  refined,  sensi 
tive — yea,  a  very  mimosa,  that  shrinks  and  trem 
bles  at  a  rude  breath  or  touch.  I  must  be  patient, 
very  patient  for  weeks,  for  months,  if  I  hope  to  win 
her  hand." 


CHAPTER    XI 

TERROR 

"No  more !  I'll  hear  no  more !  Begone  and  leave  me !" 
"Not  hear  me?  By  my  sufferings  but  you  shall !" 

OTWAY. 

GLORIA  remained  in  her  own  room  until  the  din 
ner-bell  rang. 

Then  she  arose,  hastily  arranged  her  dress, 
glanced  into  the  mirror  to  be  sure  that  all  traces  of 
the  morning's  stormy  emotion  had  passed  away 
from  her  face  at  least,  however  it  might  still  trouble 
her  spirit  or  influence  her  conduct,  and  finally  she 
went  down  stairs  and  into  the  dining-room. 

There  she  found  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  looking 
ever  paler  than  usual.  He  fixed  his  large,  dark, 
dreamy  eyes  upon  her,  not  offensively  now,  but 


GLORIA 

with  a  mournfully  appealing  gaze,  that  went  to  her 
heart,  as  he  gently  took  her  hand  and  murmured : 

"I  am  very  unhappy,  Gloria.  I  frightened  you 
this  morning,  dear.  I  do  not  know  how  I  did  it. 
I  did  not  mean  to  do  it ;  and  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 
child." 

"Oh,  uncle,  dear,  do  not  say  that.  It  was  I,  my 
self,  who  was  so  rude  and  absurd.  I  do  not  know 
why  I  was  so.  I  never  meant  to  be.  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me,"  she  answered,  speaking  from  the 
pity  of  her  heart. 

Then  with  an  instantaneous  reaction  of  fear  that 
fell  like  a  blow  upon  her  consciousness,  she  re 
gretted  her  tenderness,  and  wished  that  she  had  not 
spoken  so  warmly. 

He — ah !  he  only  heard  her  gracious  words,  only 
saw  her  sweet  smile;  he  could  not  perceive  the 
changing,  shrinking  spirit.  He  beamed  on  her  with 
a  look  that  made  her  shiver,  as  he  drew  her  hand 
within  his  arm  and  led  her  to  the  table  with  old- 
time  princely  courtesy,  and  then  took  his  own  seat. 

Laban  had  just  placed  the  soup  on  the  table,  and 
now  stood  behind  his  master's  chair  to  wait. 

While  the  servant  remained  present  there  was 
no  more  conversation  between  the  guardian  and  the 
ward  than  the  etiquette  of  the  dinner  hour  re 
quired. 

But  when  the  man  had  removed  the  cloth  and 
placed  the  fruits,  cake  and  coffee  on  the  table  and 
had  left  the  room,  and  the  uncle  and  niece  were 
alone  together,  though  the  feelings  of  each  towards 
the  other  were  of  the  kindliest  nature,  yet  there  fell 
a  certain  painful  constraint  on  their  intercourse, 
such  as  had  never  existed  in  all  their  past  lives,  but 


GLORIA 

such  as  could  never  quite  pass  away  in  all  their 
future  days. 

How  was  this? 

For  weeks  Marcel  de  Crespigney  had  rendered 
his  youthful  ward  very  uneasy  by  his  manner  to 
ward  her.  On  that  morning  he  had  frightened  her 
from  her  self-possession,  and  she  had  rushed  from 
him  in  terror.  Later  and  cooler  reflection  had  con 
vinced  her  that  she  had  really  no  actual  cause  for 
offence  or  fear.  And  when  he  had  made  his  hum 
ble  apology,  her  heart  had  been  so  touched  that  she 
had  more  than  forgiven  him,  she  had  spoken  ten 
derly  to  him,  and  she  had  taken  all  the  blame  upon 
herself.  Then,  with  strange  misgivings  of  wrong 
and  woe,  she  had  regretted  her  graciousness,  and 
when  he  beamed  on  her  with  a  look  of  love  and  joy, 
she  had  shrunk  up  into  reserve  and  cautiousness. 

She  became  possessed  of  that 

"Surly  fear  and  cold  disgust, 
Wonderful  and  most  unjust," 

which  she  could  neither  comprehend  nor  conquer; 
for  which  she  often  blamed  herself,  but  which  now 
held  her  tongue-tied  and  downcast  in  the  presence 
of  her  guardian. 

He,  on  his  own  part,  quick  to  perceive  her  state, 
felt  that  he  had  again  lost  her  confidence  and  filled 
her  with  fear;  and  he  also  grew  reticent  in  looks 
and  speech,  and  consequently  depressed  and  mourn 
ful. 

She  gave  him  a  cup  of  coffee,  without  a  word. 

He  took  it  with  a  silent  bow. 

Both  were  relieved  when,  at  the  end  of  the  cere 
mony,  they  were  free  to  leave  the  dining-room. 


GLORIA  143 

She  WPS  the  first  to  rise  from  the  table.  He  fol 
lowed  her,  opened  the  door,  and  held  it  until  she 
had  passed  out. 

In  the  hall  Gloria  paused  with  indecision  as  to 
her  next  step. 

She  had  always  been  accustomed,  since  her  re 
turn  home,  to  go  into  the  drawing-room,  sit  down 
at  the  grand  piano  and  play  some  of  Marcel  de 
Crespigney's  favorite  music,  and,  later  in  the  even 
ing,  just  before  retiring,  to  sing  some  of  his  best- 
loved  songs. 

Now  she  stood  for  a  moment  in  doubt.  Her  vague 
uneasiness  made  her  wish  for  the  privacy  and  safe 
ty  of  her  own  chamber.  Her  benevolence  made  her 
unwilling  to  wound  her  guardian's  feelings  by  any 
such  avoidanc  of  his  company. 

Only  for  a  moment  she  hesitated,  and  then  she 
led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  followed  by 
Colonel  de  Crespigney. 

She  played  and  sang  for  him  all  the  evening,  as 
usual,  and  on  bidding  him  good-night,  gave  him 
her  hand  to  kiss,  as  before. 

He  merely  touched  it  with  his  lips,  and  dropped 
it  without  a  word. 

Gloria  went  to  her  room  and  retired  to  bed ;  but 
it  was  long  before  she  could  compose  herself  to 
sleep,  and  when  she  did  so  her  slumbers  were 
troubled  with  evil  dreams  that  kept  her  tossing 
and  starting  all  night. 

Only  towards  morning  she  slept  soundly — so 
soundly  that  she  was  first  awakened  by  the  ringing 
of  the  breakfast-bell. 

She  arose  in  haste  and  dressed  herself,  and  went 
down  to  the  breakfast-room,  where  she  found  her 
guardian  pacing  to  and  fro,  waiting  for  her. 


144  GLORIA 

"Good-morning,  uncle,  dear,"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand. 

"  'Uncle/  and  always  'uncle,' "  he  sighed,  in  a 
tone  of  reproach,  as  he  held  her  hand  and  sought 
to  meet  her  eyes.  "I  am  not  your  uncle.  I  do  not 
like  the  name.  I  have  told  you  so,  my  dear.  And 
yet  it  is  'uncle,'  and  always  'uncle.' " 

"Yes,  it  is,  and  must  be  'uncle,'  and  always 
'uncle,'  and  nothing  but  'uncle,'  from  me  to  you, 
uncle,  dear,"  she  answered,  persistently,  though  in 
a  trembling  tone,  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
floor  lest  they  should  encounter  his  gaze — for  the 
gaze  of  those  large,  dark,  dreamy,  mournful  orbs 
was  beginning  to  have  a  terror  and  fascination  of 
the  serpent  or  the  devil  for  her. 

"You  have  not  forgiven  me  yet,  Gloria,"  he  an 
swered. 

"Indeed  I  have,"  she  replied,  moving  quickly  to 
her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  touching  the 
call-bell  to  bring  in  Laban  with  the  coffee  pot. 

Breakfast  passed  off  very  much  as  the  dinner  of 
the  preceding  day  had  done,  in  mutual  constraint. 

When  it  was  over,  and  both  left  the  table,  Colonel 
de  Crespigney  passed  into  the  library,  where  he 
usually  spent  his  mornings. 

It  had  been  Gloria's  unvarying  custom  to  follow 
him  thither  with  her  needlework  and  sit  sewing  in 
her  little  low  chair,  while  he  read  or  wrote  at  the 
table. 

Now,  however,  she  could  not  bear  to  re-enter  the 
place  of  the  previous  day's  terror.  She  took  her 
garden  hat  and  shawl  from  the  hall  rack  and  put 
them  on. 

"Where  are  you  going,  my  dear?"  inquired  the 
colonel. 


GLORIA  145 

"For  a  little,  solitary  walk.  I  wish  to  be  alone, 
and  I  need  more  air  and  exercise  than  I  can  get 
here.  The  day  is  so  beautiful,  too,  that  I  must  im 
prove  it.  There  are  so  few  fine  days  left  at  this 
season  of  the  year,"  she  answered,  as  she  drew  on 
her  gloves. 

The  colonel  hesitated.  He  would  rather  have 
joined  her;  but  her  emphatic  declaration  that  she 
wished  a  solitary  walk,  forbade  him  to  force  his  un 
welcome  company  upon  her. 

"Good-morning,  uncle,  dear;  I  shall  return  be 
fore  lunch,"  she  said,  as  she  left  the  house. 

He  watched  her  until  she  closed  the  front  door 
behind  her,  and  then  he  sighed  and  turned  sadly  to 
his  study  and  shut  himself  in. 

Gloria  stood  on  the  new  portico  above  the  new 
terrace  and  looked  all  over  the  renovated  domain. 
Terrace  below  terrace,  the  ground  fell  from  the 
house  down  to  the  park  wall.  Below  that,  encir 
cling  and  enclosing  the  round  of  the  end,  arose  the 
high,  strong,  gray  sea-wall,  shutting  out  the  sight 
of  the  beach.  It  was  so  solid  that  the  only  egress 
in  that  direction  was  through  the  little,  substantial 
stone  boat-house  that  was  built  against  it,  and 
whose  strong,  iron-bound  oak  doors,  both  landward 
and  seaward,  were  kept  locked. 

The  only  means  of  leaving  the  promontory  was 
by  water  through  the  boat-house  when  the  doors 
happened  to  be  unlocked,  or  by  land  across  the 
Rogue's  Neck  when  the  tide  was  low. 

"Really,  now  that  the  sea-wall  is  rebuilt  the  place 
is  more  like  a  penitentiary  than  ever,"  said  Gloria 
to  herself,  as  she  walked  away  from  the  house. 

She  wanted  to  get  off  the  promontory,  to  take  a 
longer  walk  than  she  could  get  within  its  limits,  so 


146  GLORIA 

she  resolved  to  leave  it  by  way  of  Rogue's  Neck 
and  indulge  in  a  ramble  through  the  wintry  woods 
on  the  main. 

It  was  a  really  splendid  day  within  about  a  week 
of  the  Christmas  holidays.  No  snow  had  fallen  yet, 
nor  were  the  trees  of  that  latitude  stripped  of  the 
glorious  autumnal  regalia.  Enough  bright  leaves 
had  fallen  to  carpet  the  ground  with  a  carpet  more 
brilliant  than  the  looms  of  Axminster  or  Brussels 
ever  wove;  but  not  enough  to  be  missed  from  the 
royal  robes  of  the  forest.  The  glorious  beauty  of 
the  autumn  woods  seen  across  the  water,  so  at 
tracted  the  young  girl  that  she  walked  swiftly  on 
towards  Rogue's  Neck,  never  thinking  whether  it 
were  high  or  low  tide,  only  anxious  to  cross  over 
and  plunge  into  the  depths  of  the  grand  forest.  But 
when  she  came  in  sight  of  the  Neck  she  found,  to 
her  disappointment,  that  the  waves  were  dashing 
wildly  over  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  it.  It 
was  high  tide,  and  it  would  be  six  hours  before  the 
road  would  be  passable  again. 

She  turned  away  and — met  David,  the  young 
fisherman,  face  to  face! 

Her  disappointment  was  forgotten  in  an  instant. 
Her  eyes  danced  with  joy.  Here  was  some  one,  at 
least,  of  whom  she  was  not  afraid — in  whom  she 
could  perfectly  confide — who  would  never  terrify, 
humiliate,  or  in  any  way  wound  her. 

"Oh !  David  Lindsay,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !" 
she  said,  frankly,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him. 

He  took  it,  bowed,  and  dropped  it,  all  in  silence. 

"Oh!  David  Lindsay,  why  haven't  you  come  to 
see  your  old  playmate  all  this  time?  I  have  been 
home  nearly  three  months,  and  you  have  not  been 
to  see  me  once,  not  once.  You  promised  to  come 


GLORIA  147 

the  day  after  my  arrival  to  take  me  to  s?e  your 
grandmother.  Well,  I  know  it  rained  that  day, 
and  for  a  week  afterwards,  and  you  didn't  come  be 
cause  you  knew  I  could  not  go  out  in  such  weather. 
But  there  has  been  very  fine  weather  since  then,  yet 
you  have  never  come  to  see  your  old  playmate,  never 
once — and  such  friends  as  we  used  to  be!  I  take 
it  very  unkind  of  you,  David  Lindsay,  that  I  do !" 
she  said,  with  an  air  of  injury  that  she  really  felt 

"Miss  de  la  Vera,"  gravely  replied  the  young 
man,  as  soon  as  the  cessation  of  her  scolding  little 
tongue  gave  him  the  chance,  "I  have  been  to  see 
you  many  times  within  the  last  three  months,  but 
you  have  always  been  denied  to  me." 

"Eh!"  exclaimed  Gloria,  opening  her  eyes  wide 
with  incredulous  astonishment. 

"I  beg  to  repeat  that  I  have  come  many  times  to 
pay  my  respects,  but  have  always  been  denied  the 
privilege." 

"Now,  who  has  dared  to  do  that?  Who  has  dared 
to  profane  my  freedom  in  that  manner?  David 
Lindsay,  I  never  knew  of  your  coming  or  I  would 
have  seen  you.  Now  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  ex 
claimed,  her  eyes  sparkling,  and  her  cheeks  burn 
ing  with  the  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage,  as  she 
turned  about  to  continue  her  walk.  He  also  turned 
and  went  beside  her,  as  he  answered : 

"Miss  de  la  Vera,  the  morning  after  your  arrival 
home  I  came  up  to  the  hall,  not  by  appointment, 
not  to  take  you  to  Sandy  Isle,  for  I  knew  you  could 
not  go  in  such  a  storm,  but  to  ask  you  to  fix  another 
day  when  I  might  have  the  honor  of  serving  you. 
I  was  met  by  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  to  whom  I 
made  known  my  errand.  He  told  me  that  the 
weather  would  not  permit  Miss  de  la  Vera  to  go  out 


148  GLORIA 

that  day,  nor  was  it  likely  that  it  would  be  any  more 
favorable  for  a  week  to  come,  and  when,  in  fact,  it 
should  be  so,  and  when  his  ward  should  desire  to 
make  a  visit,  he  would  himself  escort  her.  His  man 
ner  told  me  that  my  visit  was  uncalled  for,  unwel 
come,  and  improper.  I  bowed  very  low,  and  left 
him." 

"He  never  told  me  that  you  had  been  here.  I 
blamed  you  for  neglect.  And  it  is  all  his  fault.  Oh ! 
I  am  glad  I  met  you,  David  Lindsay !  Tell  me  more! 
You  came  again?" 

"Yes,  many  times,  Miss  de  la  Vera,  but  I  was  al 
ways  met  by  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  who  told  me 
that  you  were  occupied  and  could  not  see  me." 

"But  in  the  first  place,  you  must  have  seen  one 
of  the  servants.  Did  you  then  ask  for  me,  or  for 
the  colonel?" 

"For  you,  Miss  de  la  Vera.  I  always  asked  the 
servant  I  happened  to  see  to  take  my  respectful 
message  to  yourself,  that  I  waited  on  you,  accord 
ing  to  your  orders.  And  always  Colonel  de  Cres 
pigney  came  out  and  told  me  that  you  were  engaged, 
or  words  to  the  same  effect,  and  so  dismissed  me, 
showing  by  his  manner  that  he  considered  my  call 
impertinent.  Yet,  as  he  did  not  actually  forbid  me 
to  come  again,  and  as  I  considered  that  I  was  acting 
under  your  orders,  I  continued  to  come  once  or 
twice  a  week.  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  house  when 
we  met." 

"Oh!"  burst  forth  Gloria,  with  one  of  her  irre 
pressible  impulses.  "I  think  it  was  most  outrageous 
for  any  one  to  interfere  with  my  liberty  of  action  in 
that  way!  I  will  never  submit  to  such  control! 
Never!  It  was  the  farthest  thing  from  my  dear 
father's  thoughts  that  my  will  should  be  so  ham- 


GLORIA  149 

pered !  He  made  every  provision  for  my  freedom 
and  happiness!" 

"Miss  de  la  Vera,"  said  the  young  man,  speaking 
conscientiously  and  generously,  "I  think  your 
guardian  acted  for  the  best.  He  had  the  right  to 
deny  any  visitor  to  you  whom  he  disapproved  of 
for  any  reason.  My  grandmother  said  so  when  I 
told  her  of  my  failure.  And  she  always  said,  be 
sides,  that  Colonel  de  Crespigney  was  the  most  in 
dulgent  guardian  that  she  ever  heard  of,  and  that 
you  had  more  freedom,  even  when  a  child,  than  any 
young  lady  she  ever  knew,  having  your  own  way 
in  almost  everything.  And  you  know  my  old  grand 
mother  is  a  wise  and  good  woman." 

"Yes,  I  know  she  is,  and  I  honor  her,  and  I  love 
her  dearly,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  wanted  so 
much  to  go  to  see  her,  and  asked  you  to  come  and 
row  me  over  in  the  boat.  And  to  think  you  came 
so  often  and  I  did  not  know  it.  Oh-h !" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  persisted  in  coming. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  taken  a  hint  from  the 
colonel's  manner,  and  stayed  away  after  my  first 
repulse,"  said  the  young  fisherman. 

"No,  you  ought  not,  David  Lindsay.  You  ought 
to  have  minded  me  rather  than  him !"  said  the  little 
autocrat. 

"Then  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  of  my  re 
peated  rebuffs  to  stir  up  angry  feelings  in  your 
bosom." 

"Now,  how  could  you  help  it  with  such  a  cate- 
chiser  as  I  am?  You  could  not  tell  a  falsehood  by 
saying  that  you  had  not  been  there,  and  you  could 
not  act  a  falsehood  by  keeping  silence." 

"True;  but  I  beg  you  to  be  just  to  your  guardian, 
Miss  de  la  Vera." 


150  GLORIA 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  do  you  be  just  to  yourself. 
Is  your  boat  here?" 

"Yes,  Miss.  It  is  near  this  end  of  the  Neck.  I 
cannot  land  at  the  old  fishing  landing  now,  because 
of  the  new  sea-wall  and  the  locked  boat-house  block 
ing  off  all  from  the  beach  in  that  direction." 

"I  understand.  The  place  is  more  like  a  prison 
than  ever.  Well,  David  Lindsay,  please  to  walk 
up  with  me  to  the  house.  I  have  a  parcel  there  for 
Granny  Lindsay  which  I  want  you  to  help  me  carry 
to  the  boat ;  for  I  am  going  to  Sandy  Isle  to  see  her 
this  morning/'  said  the  young  lady,  in  a  tone  of  de 
cision  that  admitted  of  no  reply. 

So  the  young  fisherman  walked  obediently  by  her 
side  until  they  reached  the  hall. 

Gloria  opened  the  front  door,  which,  in  that  safe 
seclusion,  was  never  locked  in  the  daytime,  and  in 
vited  the  young  man  to  follow  her  in. 

"Sit  here  in  the  hall,  David  Lindsay,  while  I  run 
up  to  my  room  and  get  my  parcel/'  she  said,  point 
ing  to  a  chair. 

At  that  moment  the  study  door  opened  on  the 
right,  and  Colonel  de  Crespigney  came  out  and 
looked  about  as  if  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  Of 
course,  his  eyes  fell  at  once  upon  the  form  of  the 
young  fisherman  just  seated  in  the  chair. 

"David  Lindsay  is  here,  at  my  request,  to  take 
me  to  Sandy  Isle  to  see  Dame  Lindsay,"  said  Gloria, 
pausing,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lowest  post  of  the 
banisters,  and  her  foot  upon  the  lowest  step  of  the 
stairs. 

"Oh !"  replied  the  colonel,  not  very  graciously, 
as  he  looked  slowly  from  the  girl  to  the  young 
man, 

Gloria  paused  as  if  inviting  or  defying  him  to 


GLORIA  151 

any  controversy  on  the  subject;  but  lie  never  said 
another  word,  and  after  a  minute's  delay  went  back 
into  his  study  and  shut  the  door. 

Gloria  flew  up  stairs  to  her  chamber,  and  in  a 
few  moments  came  down  with  two  parcels  in  her 
hand. 

"I  have  made  my  bundle  into  two,  you  see;  one 
for  you  to  carry  and  one  for  me,"  she  said,  as  she 
handed  him  the  larger  one;  and  perhaps  she  could 
not  have  explained,  even  to  herself,  the  subtle  deli 
cacy  of  feeling  that  induced  her  to  do  this,  so  as 
not  to  seem  to  treat  her  old  playmate  as  a  servant 
or  a  porter,  to  carry  all  her  luggage. 

David  wished  to  take  both,  but  her  peremptory 
decision  prevented  him. 

Just  as  they  were  starting  to  go.  Colonel  de  Cres- 
pigney  emerged  from  his  study,  cloaked  and  gloved. 
He  took  his  hat  from  the  rack,  saying  pleasantly : 

"I  hope  you  will  permit  me  to  make  a  third  in 
this  party,  my  dear.  I  should  like  to  go." 

Gloria  was  dumfounded  with  astonishment. 
Besides,  what  could  she  say  in  opposition  to  so 
reasonable  a  proposal?  She  could  say  nothing. 

The  three  walked  out  together,  Colonel  de  Cres- 
pigney  taking  the  little  parcel  from  his  ward's  hand 
and  carrying  it  himself. 

She  made  no  objection  to  this.  She  rather  liked 
it,  because  David  Lindsay  was  also  carrying  a 
bundle. 

"What  are  the  contents  of  these  parcels,  if  I  may 
inquire,  my  dear?"  asked  her  guardian. 

"Presents  for  my  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay  that  I 
brought  all  the  way  from  Edinboro',  but  have  not 
had  the  opportunity  of  taking  to  her  before,  be 
cause  David  Lindsay,  whom  I  requested  to  come 


152  GLORIA 

and  row  me  over  to  the  isle,  was  always  denied  me 
when  he  came  to  the  house,"  answered  Gloria,  ruth 
lessly. 

"Ah !"  said  her  guardian ;  but  he  offered  no  ex 
planation. 

David  led  the  way  to  his  boat,  and  assisted  the 
lady  and  gentleman  to  enter  it.  He  made  them 
comfortable  on  the  seats,  and  then  taking  both  oars, 
rowed  vigorously  and  rapidly  for  the  little  sand 
hill. 

In  a  very  few  moments  they  touched  the  beach, 
and  the  young  boatman  secured  the  boat  and  as 
sisted  the  passengers  to  land. 

"Now,"  said  Gloria,  addressing  her  two  com 
panions,  as  her  queenly  eyes  traveled  slowly  from 
one  to  the  other,  "you  two  will  please  to  bring  my 
bundles  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  house,  but  no  far 
ther.  I  want  you,  if  you  please,  then  to  return  to 
the  boat  and  wait  for  me;  for  I  want  my  dee-ar 
Granny  Lindsay  all  to  myself  to-day." 

"Very  well,  little  despot;  you  shall  be  obeyed," 
said  Colonel  de  Crespigriey,  answering  for  both, 
as  they  led  the  way  to  the  dame's  cottage,  followed 
by  the  young  girl. 

The  day  was  cold,  though  clear,  so  the  cottage 
door  was  closed. 

"Here,  now,  leave  the  bundles,  and  go  your  way. 
I  will  join  you  in  the  boat,  in  half  an  hour,"  said 
Gloria. 

Her  two  servants  set  down  their  burdens  where 
they  were  told  to  put  them,  and  went  where  they 
were  ordered  to  go. 

Gloria  watched  them — not  out  of  sight,  for  that 
she  could  not,  on  the  tiny  islet,  where,  from  the 
rocky  centre  to  the  sandy  circumference,  everything 


GLORIA  153 

was  distinctly  visible;  but  she  watched  them  go 
down  to  the  beach  and  begin  to  walk  around  it, 
before  she  knocked  at  the  cottage  door. 

"I  wonder  if  uncle  will  say  anything  to  David 
Lindsay?  I  hope  he  will  not,  for  it  was  I  who 
brought  him  to  the  house  this  time,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  as  she  knocked  again,  for  her  first  summons 
had  not  been  answered.  Now,  however,  the  door 
opened,  and  Dame  Lindsay  appeared,  smiling 
kindly,  as  of  old,  though  looking  rather  feebler 
and  more  infirm  than  Gloria  had  ever  seen  her. 

"Ah,  young  lady,  is  it  'eeself  at  last  come  to  see 
the  old  'ornan?  I  knew  ?ee  would  sooner  or  later! 
Come  in,  dearie.  Eh!  then,  what  is  all  this?  and 
where  is  David,  that  he  has  not  brought  them  for 
>ee?"  she  said,  on  espying  the  parcels. 

"Oh,  Granny  Lindsay,  he  did  bring  them  for  me, 
he  and  uncle;  but  I  would  not  let  them  stop.  I 
sent  them  back  to  the  boat,  because  I  wanted  to 
have  you  all  to  myself,"  said  Gloria,  as  she  picked 
up  one  bundle,  while  the  old  woman  took  the  other, 
and  they  entered  the  house  together. 

"Now  sit  ?ee  down,  and  take  off  'ee  things, 
dearie,"  said  the  dame,  as  she  placed  a  chair. 

"I  will  sit  down,  dear  Granny  Lindsay,  but  not 
take  off  my  hat  this  time,  because  uncle  would 
come,  and  his  doing  so  has  prevented  me  from 
spending  the  day  with  you  as  I  wished  so  much 
to  do;  for,  oh !  I  remember  what  happy,  happy  days 
I  used  to  have  here  with  you  and  David!  And 
nothing  is  changed  here!  Nothing,  nothing!  The 
very  chest  of  drawers  and  table  and  chairs  sit  in 
the  very  places  where  they  used  to  sit  in  the  sweet 
old  time." 

"Why,  dearie,  everything  sits  where  it  must  sit. 


154.  GLORIA 

In  a  room  like  this  everything  is  put  into  the  place 
where  it  fits  best,  and  there  it  has  to  stay.  There 
is  no  room  for  alterations,  dearie." 

"Well,  I  like  to  see  it  as  it  used  to  be.  Now, 
dear  Granny  Lindsay,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  wanted 
to  come  to  see  you  the  day  after  my  arrival  home; 
but  it  was  raining  that  day  and  for  a  week  after 
wards,  and  when  it  cleared  off  and  David  Lindsay 
so  kindly  came  to  fetch  me,  he  was  told  that  I  was 
engaged.  Well,  I  might  have  been  doing  some 
thing,  and  probably  was,  but  it  was  nothing  that  I 
would  not  have  willingly  dropped  for  the  sake  of 
coming  to  see  you,  if  I  had  only  been  told  that 
David  Lindsay  had  come  for  me;  but  I  was  not 
told — I  was  never  told.  I  should  never  have  known 
if  I  had  not  met  him  by  chance  this  morning." 

"I  know,  I  know,  dearie,  David  told  me.  It  was 
'ee  good  guardian's  prudence,  dearie,  as  I  explained 
to  David.  'Ee  must  mind  ?ee  guardian,  dearie,  and 
be  guided  and  governed  by  him  until  ?ee  comes 
of  a  proper  age,  little  lady,  and  all  the  more  must 
'ee  submit  'eeself  to  him  who  stands  in  a  father's 
place,  because  ?ee  has  no  mother,  dearie,"  said  the 
dame,  speaking  conscientiously  and  affectionately. 

"Ah,"  thought  the  poor  girl,  "if  she  knew  how 
he  frightens  and  distresses  me,  she  would  not  say 
that!  I  wonder  if  I  could  tell  her?  No,  because 
I  could  not  explain !  How  could  I  explain?  There 
is  nothing  to  explain." 

With  a  sigh  Gloria  turned  from  her  perplexed 
thoughts  to  the  pleasant  task  before  her. 

She  lifted  both  bundles  from  the  floor  to  the 
table.  She  untied  and  opened  one,  and  displayed  a 
large  double  shawl  of  a  fine  black  and  white  check, 
saying : 


GLORIA  155 

"Now  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay,  I  know  you  love 
old  Scotland,  where  your  forefathers  came  from, 
and  you  would  like  any  good  thing  that  came  from 
Scotland.  Now,  I  brought  this  from  Edinboro'  for 
you." 

"Did  ?ee,  dearie?  How  beautiful  it  is!  How 
lovely  and  soft,  and  large,  and  warm  it  is!  How 
kind  and  thoughtful  it  was  of  'ee  to  bring  it  to 
the  old  woman!  But  that  is  nothing  new.  7Ee 
was  always  good,  my  dearie.  Now,  I'll  tell  'ee 
how  much  I  needed  just  such  a  shawl.  My  old 
gray  woolen  one  is  worn  quite  thin  and  threadbare. 
So  'ee  sees  how  much  good  'ee  has  done  me,  dearie." 

"Oh,  Granny  Lindsay,  I  feel  so  grateful  to  you 
for  liking  it  so  much.  And  look  here — oh,  I  hope 
you  will  like  these,  too!"  said  the  young  girl,  as 
she  unrolled  the  other  bundle  and  displayed  a  dress 
of  shepherd's  cloth  of  a  deep  blue  shade3  and  two 
woven  underskirts  of  thick  red  flannel. 

"Oh,  dearie!  What  can  I  say  to  'ee  now  for  all 
'ee  gracious  gifts?  What?  The  old  woman  is  al 
most  dumb-struck,  dearie,  but  her  heart  is  full," 
said  the  dame,  in  a  voice  very  low,  and  trembling 
with  the  emotion  that  filled  her  aged  eyes  with 
tears. 

"Do  you  like  them?  Will  they  make  you  more 
comfortable?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad!" 

"And  here  is  something  I  got  for  David  Lind 
say.  It  is  only  a  dozen  Scotch  pocket-handker 
chiefs;  but  I  have  worked  his  name  in  the  corners 
with  my  hair.  Will  you  give  them  to  him  from 
his  old  playmate?" 

"Yes,  dearie,  surely,  if  'ee  wishes  it,"  replied  the 
dame,  in  a  subdued  and  broken  voice,  for  she  could 
now  refuse  nothing  to  the  affectionate  girl  who  had 


156  GLORIA 

remembered  her,  even  in  a  foreign  country,  and 
brought  home  comforts  for  her  age. 

"And  now,  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay,  I  must  leave 
you.  My  half  hour  is  up." 

"I  wish  'ee  could  stay  all  day,  dearie." 

"So  do  I ;  I  meant  to  stay,  but — but  my  guardian 
came  with  me  and  spoiled  all  my  plans." 

"  7Ee  gardeen  means  ?ee  well,  dearie.  'Ee  mustn't 
rebel  against  his  just  authority." 

"Good-by,  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay." 

"Good-by,  since  >ee  must  go.  The  good  Lord  keep 
?ee,  dearie." 

And  so  Gloria  left  the  cottage,  and  walked 
rapidly  down  to  the  boat,  where  she  found  her 
guardian  and  the  young  fisherman  waiting  for  her. 

She  entered  and  seated  herself  in  the  stern. 

David  Lindsay  took  up  the  oars  and  rowed 
quickly  to  the  boat-house,  which  they  reached  in  a 
few  minutes. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  handed  his  ward  to  the 
steps,  and  with  a  cool — "Thanks.  Good-day,"  to 
the  young  boatman,  led  her  up  the  stairs  and 
through  to  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"I  wish,  uncle  dear,  that  you  would  leave  the  key 
in  the  lock  always.  It  makes  the  place  feel  like 
a  prison  to  have  the  boat-house,  which  is  the  only 
gateway  and  passage  through  the  sea-wall,  locked 
up  all  the  time." 

"I  will  do  anything  you  wish,  my  dear  Gloria. 
You  have  only  to  make  your  will  known  and  it 
shall  be  obeyed,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"I  thank  you,  dear  uncle.  And  since  you  are  so 
kind,  will  you  give  orders  that  in  future,  whenever 
David  Lindsay  comes  to  take  me  to  see  my  dee-ar 
old  friend  on  the  islet,  I  may  promptly  be  informed 


GLORIA  157 

of  his  presence?''  inquired  Gloria,  with,  a  grave 
earnestness  that  was  more  like  a  gracious  command 
than  a  request. 

"My  dearest,  yes !  even  that,  if  you  make  a  point 
of  it." 

"I  do  make  a  point  of  it." 

"I  sent  the  young  man  away,  I  should  explain, 
because  I  wished  you  quietly  rid  of  him." 

"Kid  of  David  Lindsay,  uncle !  Why  should  I  bo 
rid  of  him?" 

"Gloria,  I  appreciate  your  need  of  a  mother's 
guidance;  but — is  it  possible  that  you  have  no  in 
tuitions  to  direct  you?"  gravely  and  sadly  inquired 
the  colonel. 

"If  by  intuitions,  uncle,  you  mean  inward  teach 
ings,  yes.  I  have  them ;  they  are,  perhaps,  the  best, 
if  not  the  only  instructions  I  have ;  and  from  them. 
I  learn  to  understand,  respect,  and  trust  him — 
David  Lindsay — more  than  I  can  any  other  human 
being,  except,  perhaps,  his  grandmother  and — 
yourself." 

"His  grandmother  and  myself!  Thank  you,  my 
dear,"  said  the  colonel,  wincing. 

Gloria  laughed.  She  very  seldom  laughed,  but 
when  she  did  the  silver  cadence  of  her  laughter 
was  like  the  shiver  of  silver  bells,  a  delight  to  hear. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  uncle! 
I  should  have  said  the  Emperor  Napoleon  and  your 
self ;  only,  unfortunately,  I  am  not  intimate  enough 
with  his  imperial  majesty  to  know  whether  I  re 
spect  him  or  not." 

"Nonsense,  Gloria.  Be  serious,  my  child.  You 
may  respect  this  young  man,  who  has  grown  up  on 
the  estate;  you  may  understand  and  respect  him 
in  his  proper  place,  as  much  as  you  please;  but  if 


158  GLORIA 

you  make  a  companion  of  Mm,  who  is  to  under 
stand  you? — not  to  ask,  who  is  to  respect  you,  my 
dear?" 

"Uncle!"  exclaimed  Gloria,  flushing  to  the  very 
edges  of  her  radiant  hair.  "Uncle!  Is  it  making 
a  companion  of  David  Lindsay  to  have  him  row  me 
in  a  boat  where  I  wish  to  go?" 

"Yes,  Gloria,  decidedly  so,  when  the  boat  is  his 
own  and  he  takes  you  to  his  own  home." 

"How  dreadfully  you  put  the  case,  uncle!"  ex 
claimed  the  girl,  crimson  with  humiliation. 

"I  put  it  truly,  dear  Gloria,"  answered  the 
colonel,  pursuing  his  advantage  unsparingly.  "I 
put  it  truly.  You  will  injure  yourself  irreparably 
by  such  eccentric  unconventionality.  My  poor 
child,  it  is  your  mother  who  should  instruct  you 
in  all  these  matters,  not  a  profane  heathen  of  a 
man;  only  unfortunately  you  have  no  mother,  and 
so  you  must  even  be  guided  by  so  poor  a  counsellor 
as  myself." 

"I  do  not  see  what  harm  can  come  of  my  going 
to  see  Dame  Lindsay  in  her  grandson's  boat." 

"No,  you  do  not  see;  but  others  will,  my  child, 
and  they  will  criticise  you.  Objectionable  attach 
ments  have  been  formed  and  improper  marriages 
contracted  before  now  between  ladies  of  rank  and 
men  of  low  degree,  and  you " 

"Sir!  I  PROTEST  against  this  talk!"  she  indig 
nantly  interrupted.  "To  whom  do  your  remarks 
point?  To  me?  To  David  Lindsay?  Do  you  dare 
to  suppose,  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  that  I  should 
ever  dream — that  he  would  ever  think  of — oh !  what 
an  odious  thought  is  in  your  mind !  Never  do  you 
dare,  sir,  to  hint  such  a  thing  to  me  again !" 


GLORIA  159 

"I  hope  never  to  have  the  occasion,  my  dear," 
coolly  replied  the  colonel. 

"Detestable,  revolting,  abhorrent,  odions!  Oh! 
that  you  should  dare  to  hint  such  a  humiliation 
to  me!  I  can  never  forgive  you  for  it,  Colonel  de 
Crespigney!  I  feel  more,  much  more  than  of 
fended!  I  feel  insulted,  dishonored,  humiliated! 
I  do !"  cried  Gloria,  vehemently. 

But  in  all  her  indignation  there  was  no  scorn  of 
David  Lindsay,  or  of  his  humble  calling;  for  in 
her  innocent  and  loyal  way  she  loved  and  respected 
her  old  playmate,  even  as  she  did  his  aged  relative 
on  the  islet.  It  was  the  hypothesis  of  "an  objec 
tionable  attachment"  and  "an  improper  marriage" 
at  which  she  revolted.  And  if,  instead  of  a  poor, 
uncultivated  young  fisherman,  the  most  accom 
plished  prince  on  earth  had  been  in  question,  she 
would  have  felt  equally  offended. 

They  had  now  reached  the  steps  leading  up  to 
the  portico  of  the  front  door. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  paused  there,  and  with 
his  hand  resting  on  one  of  the  iron  posts,  he  in 
quired  : 

"Well,  shall  I  give  the  orders  you  requested  me 
to  issue?  Shall  I  say  that  the  young  fisherman 
must  be  admitted  to  your  presence  whenever  he 
may  come  here  and  ask  to  see  you?" 

"No!  On  your  soul!"  impetuously  answered  the 
girl.  "No !  You  have  killed  David  Lindsay !  You 
have  murdered  the  harmless  playmate  of  my  happy 
childhood !  I  shall  never,  never  see  him  more !  He 
is  dead  and  buried !" 

" 'Requiescat  in  pace' '•  replied  the  colonel 
solemnly,  lifting  his  hat. 


160  GLORIA 

Gloria  passed  him,  opened  the  front  door,  and 
fled  up  into  the  safety  of  her  room. 

Her  "intuitions"  warned  the  motherless  child  to 
avoid  a  tete-d-tdte  with  Colonel  de  Crespigney. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOPELESS   LOVE 

He  deemed  that  time,  he  deemed  that  pride 
Had  quenched,  at  length,  his  boyish  flame, 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  her  side, 
His  heart  in  all  save  hope  the  same. 

BYRON. 

MEANWHILE  David  Lindsay  had  returned  to  his 
grandmother's  cottage,  his  soul  filled  with  the  im 
age  of  the  lovely  girl  he  had  just  landed  on  the 
promontory. 

"I  shall  go  mad  if  it  continues  much  longer,''  he 
groaned.  "Yes,  it  will  craze  me!  If  I  could  only 
escape  and  fly  to  new  places  and  scenes  that  would 
not  remind  me  of  her  so  constantly,  so  bitterly! 
But  I  cannot  leave  my  grandmother,  who  has  no 
one  but  me.  I  must  stay,  though  I  am  bound  to  the 
rack.  I  must  see  my  angel  and  not  open  my  lips 
in  adoration !  I  must  suffer  and  not  utter  a  cry ! 
Why,  it  would  insult  her  to  tell  her  I  love  her !  And 
yet  in  our  innocent  childhood  she  has  set  by  me 
hours  reading  out  of  the  same  books.  She  kindled 
a  soul  under  the  poor  fisher  lad's  rough  bosom ! — a 
soul  to  love  and  to  suffer  the  anguish  of  a  lost 
Heaven  in  the  loss  of  her.  Oh,  my  little  angel,  did 


GLORIA  161 

you  know  what  you  were  doing?  Oh,  my  little  angel, 
my  little  angel,  who  am  I  that  I  should  dare  to  love 
you?  A  poor,  rude  fisherman,  to  whom  you  came 
as  a  messenger  from  heaven  to  inspire  him  with  in 
telligent  life,  with  a  soul  to  love  and  suffer.  Oh! 
my  darling,  you  fill  my  life!  You  are  my  life!  I 
see  your  bright  face  shining  in  the  darkness  of  my 
room  at  night.  I  hear  your  sweet  voice  ringing  in 
the  silence!  What  shall  I  do?  Ah,  Heaven,  what 
shall  I  do?  If  I  could  ship  on  one  of  these  schoon 
ers  that  touch  here  sometimes,  and  if  I  could  go  to 
new  scenes  where  I  should  never  meet  her  again,  I 
might  conquer  this  madness.  But  that  is  impossi 
ble  at  present.  I  must  not  fly  from  duty.  I  must 
stay  here  and  meet  whatever  fate  may  have  in  store 
for  me,  and  that  is  insanity  or  death,  I  think.  Oh ! 
I  fear,  I  fear  that  I  shall  go  mad  some  day,  and  in 
my  madness  tell  her  how  I  love  her!  And  then — 
the  deluge!" 

So  absorbed  was  the  poor  lad's  soul  in  his  love 
and  his  woe,  that  it  was  a  purely  mechanical  and 
unconscious  work  to  row  back  to  the  islet,  secure 
his  boat,  and  walk  up  to  the  cot. 

He  did  not  "come  to  himself"  until  he  had  run 
his  head  against  the  door. 

His  grandmother  opened  it,  smiled,  and  said: 

"Come  in,  David,  and  see  what  the  little  lady  has 
left  here  for  me  and  for  you." 

He  started  and  entered  the  cottage. 

Fortunately  for  him,  the  dim  eyes  of  age  did  not 
perceive  his  strong  emotion. 

"Sit  'ee  down,  David,  and  look.  Here  are  two 
ribbed  flannel  petticoats,  such  as  couldn't  be  got  in 
this  country  for  love  nor  money.  And  here  is  a  navy 
blue  shepherd's  cloth,  and  a  fine  large  double  plaid 


162  GLORIA 

shawl.  Look  at  'em,  David,  lad!  But  Lor',  men 
don't  know  anything  about  women's  wear.  Well, 
then,  look  ?ee  here.  Here  is  your  present,  David — 
a  dozen  lovely,  large,  fine  white  linen  handkerchiefs, 
every  one  of  them  marked  with  your  full  name  by 
her  own  hand,  and  with  her  own  golden  hair,  David 
— with  the  child's  own  golden  hair." 

"Give  them  to  me !"  cried  the  young  man,  eagerly 
catching  the  parcel  from  her  hand,  looking  around 
like  some  wild  animal,  with  prey  that  he  feared 
would  be  snatched  from  him,  and  then  running  up 
the  narrow  stairs  that  led  to  his  own  loft. 

"What's  come  to  the  poor  lad?"  cried  the  old 
woman,  gazing  after  him.  "The  Lord  defend  him 
from  being  taken  with  love!" 

Meantime  David  Lindsay  had  scrambled  up  into 
his  own  little  den. 

It  was  a  poor  place,  with  only  a  leaning  roof  meet 
ing  in  a  peak  overhead,  with  hardly  room  enough 
to  stand  upright,  with  bare  walls,  bare  floor,  and 
only  oDe  small  window  of  four  panes  in  front,  which 
opened  on  hinges. 

It  contained  a  rude  but  clean  bed,  covered  with 
a  blue  and  white  patchwork  quilt,  and  one  chest 
that  stood  under  the  front  window,  and  one  shelf, 
on  which  stood  Gloria's  precious  books.  He  sat 
down  on  the  chest,  for  there  was  no  other  seat,  and 
opened  his  parcel  of  handkerchiefs,  and  examined 
them  one  by  one.  He  saw  his  own  name  on  each, 
worked  in  minute  golden  letters,  formed  of  Gloria's 
own  radiant  hair.  He  pressed  each  to  his  lips,  to 
his  heart. 

"Oh,  more  precious  than  all  the  treasures  of 
Hindostan's  mines  are  these  to  me,"  he  murmured 
— "her  own  sacred  hair,  her  own  hallowed  hands' 


GLORIA  163 

work !  Oh,  my  angel,  my  augel,  no  word  suits  you 
but  this — 'angel.'  I  have  this  much  of  you,  at  least, 
and  I  will  never  part  with  it  while  I  live — while  I 
live — and  then,  afterwards,  beyond  this  world,  may 
there  not  be  some  realms  of  bliss  where  we  may 
meet,  as  we  met  in  guileless  childhood  and  love, 
without  a  thought  of  any  barrier  of  rank  between 
us?" 

This,  and  much  more,  murmured  the  young  man 
to  himself,  as  he  pressed  the  handkerchiefs  to  his 
heart,  his  lips  and  burning  forehead. 

But  the  voice  of  his  aged  relative  recalled  him 
to  his  duty.  With  fond  superstition  he  folded  one 
handkerchief  and  put  it  in  his  bosom,  with  her 
bright  hair  next  his  heart.  The  others  he  folded 
carefully  and  put  in  his  chest.  Then  he  went  below 
to  hew  wood  and  fetch  water  for  the  needs  of  the 
little  home. 

Gloria  did  not  meet  her  uncle  until  the  dinner 
hour,  when  her  short,  impulsive  resentment  melted 
away  before  the  mournful,  even  meek,  reserve  of  his 
manner. 

After  dinner  she  went  into  the  drawing-room,  sat 
down  at  the  piano,  and  played  for  him  us  usual, 
until  the  hour  of  retiring. 

The  next  morning,  after  their  breakfast,  as  she 
turned  to  go  up  stairs,  he  called  to  her : 

"Gloria,  my  dear,  will  you  not  come  into  the  li 
brary  and  sit  with  me,  as  usual?" 

"No,  thanks,  uncle  dear.  I  have  a  letter  to  write 
to  Aunt  Agrippina." 

"Can  you  not  write  it  at  one  of  the  library 
tables?" 

"I  would  rather  go  up  into  my  room,  uncle." 

"But  why?" 


164  GLORIA 

"Because — well — I  would  rather." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  ine,  Gloria?"  he  inquired,  very 
mournfully. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  answered, 
firmly : 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"But  why  should  you  be?" 

"I — don't — know,"  she  answered. 

"Then  that  is  a  most  unjust  and  unreasonable 
fear  of  yours,  for  which  you  can  assign  no  cause,  my 
child." 

She  looked  down  and  made  no  answer. 

"Do  you  not  yourself  think  so,  Gloria?" 

"Yes,  no ;  I  don't  know.  Let  me  go  up  stairs  now, 
please,  uncle,"  she  said,  in  growing  distress. 

"I  do  not  hinder  you,  my  child.  You  are  as  free 
as  air.  Go,"  he  said. 

Eelieved  to  be  free,  she  ran  up  stairs ;  but  happen 
ing  to  look  down  as  she  turned  around  on  the  land 
ing,  she  saw  him  standing  still,  looking  so  lonely 
and  miserable  that  her  heart  reproached  her  for 
selfishness,  if  not  for  cruelty.  She  paused  and  hesi 
tated  for  a  moment  and  then  ran  down  again  and 
said: 

"Uncle  dear,  if  you  want  me,  I  will  come  in  and 
sit  with  you.  Of  course  I  can  write  my  letter  just 
as  well  on  the  library  table.  Do  you  want  me?" 

"My  child,  I  always  want  you.  Every  moment  of 
my  life  I  want  you,"  he  answered  in  a  low  tone  as 
he  opened  the  library  for  her  to  enter. 

She  had  a  little  rosewood  writing-desk  of  her  own 
on  one  of  the  tables. 

He  went  and  opened  it  for  her  and  placed  a  chair 
before  it. 

As  soon  as  she  had  seated  herself  he  went  and  sat 


GLORIA  165 

down  at  his  own  reading  stand  and  assumed  an  air 
of  melancholy  reserve  that  he  knew  would  touch 
her  heart  and  calm  her  fears. 

"I  must  be  very  patient  and  very  cautious  in  deal 
ing  with  my  dear,  my  birdling,  if  I  would  ever  win 
her  to  my  bosom,"  he  said  to  himself. 

And  from  that  day  for  many  days  he  was  very 
guarded  in  his  manner  to  his  sensitive  ward,  main 
taining  always  a  mournfully  affectionate  yet  some 
what  reserved  demeanor. 

Gloria  was  not  quite  reassured.  Her  confidence, 
once  so  rudely  shaken,  could  not  be  quite  firmly 
re-established.  She  continued  to  decline  a  tete-a- 
tete  with  him  whenever  she  could  do  so  without 
rudeness  or  unkindness.  She  walked  out  more  than 
usual.  The  weather  continued  to  be  very  fine  for 
the  season. 

Christmas  Eve  was  a  most  glorious  day.  There 
was  not  a  cloud  in  all  the  sky.  The  sun  shone  down 
with  dazzling  splendor  from  the  deep  blue  heavens. 
The  ripples  of  the  sea  flashed  and  sparkled  like 
liquid  sapphires.  The  woods  on  the  main  glowed 
in  the  light. 

The  scene  was  too  tempting. 

Gloria  put  on  her  fur  jacket  and  hood  and  walked 
forth  to  the  "Neck." 

She  found  the  tide  at  its  lowest  ebb  and  the  road 
to  the  main  high  and  dry. 

She  set  oft'  to  walk  across  it.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  done  so.  The  "Neck,"  indeed,  was 
a  natural  bridge  of  rock  connecting  the  promontory 
to  the  main  and  affording  an  excellent  roadway 
when  the  tide  was  low,  but  quite  impassable,  being 
at  least  six  feet  under  water  when  the  tide  was  high. 

It  was  very  low  now  and  the  path  was  very  clear. 


166  GLORIA 

Gloria  walked  on,  so  inspired  by  the  glory  and 
gladness  of  the  sun,  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  woods  that 
her  spirits  soared  like  a  bird,  and,  like  a  bird,  broke 
forth  in  song. 

She  sang  as  she  walked.  The  way  was  long  but 
joyous  with  light  and  beauty,  even  though  the  sea 
son  was  near  mid-winter. 

At  length  she  reached  the  main  and  bent  her  step 
to  the  gorgeous  woods,  still  wearing  their  regal 
autumn  dress. 

Gloria  plunged  into  their  depths  and  rambled 
and  reveled  in  their  delightful  solitudes.  The  song 
birds  had  flown  farther  south,  yet  the  air  seemed 
full  of  jubilant  music.  Was  it  in  the  air  or  in  her 
own  spirit?  She  could  not  tell.  She  was  so  gay 
and  glad !  She  wandered  on  and  on,  tempted  by 
vistas  of  crimson,  golden,  and  purple  avenues,  more 
graceful  in  form  than  classic  arches. 

At  length  she  spied,  at  some  distance  off,  in  the 
deepest  depths  of  the  forest,  a  scene  like  a  confla 
gration — a  cluster  of  trees  burning,  glowing  and 
sparkling  like  fire  in  the  rays  of  the  sun  that  struck 
down  upon  their  tops. 

Fascinated  by  the  vision,  she  made  her  way  to 
ward  it,  and  found  a  clump  of  holly  trees,  thick  with 
bright  scarlet  berries. 

"Oh,  I  must  have  some  of  these  to  decorate  the 
house  to-night,"  she  said,  as  she  began  to  pull  those 
that  were  in  her  reach.  But  when  she  had  plucked 
all  that  hung  low,  she  found  that  she  had  not 
enough  for  her  purpose. 

"I  cannot  get  any  more,  so  I  had  better  take 
these  home  and  come  back  again  and  bring  Laban 


GLORIA  167 

to  climb  the  trees  for  me,  and  get  enough  from  the 
top  branches." 

With  this  resolve  she  turned  and  retraced  her 
steps,  but  soon  lost  herself  in  the  pathless  woods, 
and  wandered  about  for  hours  trying  to  find  her 
way  out  of  them.  She  had  no  fear  whatever.  She 
was  sure  that  she  should  emerge  safely  some  time 
or  other.  She  only  felt  some  little  haste  to  get  home 
time  enough  to  bring  Laban  back  for  the  holly. 

At  length  her  confidence  was  justified.  She 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  through  a  thinner 
growth  of  the  woods,  and,  walking  toward  it,  soon 
came  out  on  the  bank  above  the  "Neck."  She  de 
scended  quickly,  and  began  to  cross. 

No  one  in  that  neighborhood  would  have  ven 
tured  to  go  over  the  "Neck"  at  such  a  time.  It  was 
in  pure  ignorance  that  Gloria  did  it. 

She  did  not  even  notice  how  much  the  Neck 
had  narrowed  since  she  crossed  it  four  hours  before, 
when  the  tide  was  at  its  lowest  ebb,  and  was  even 
then  turning.  It  had  been  coming  in  ever  since, 
and  now  there  was  but  about  four  feet  width  of 
the  road  left  in  the  middle  of  the  Neck — abundant 
space  for  a  foot-path  if  it  should  not  narrow  too 
rapidly. 

Gloria  had  not  a  thought  of  danger  when  she  set 
out  to  recross  the  Neck. 

She  walked  on,  singing  as  she  went,  and  if  a  wave 
higher  than  usual  dashed  quite  across  her  path, 
why,  it  fell  back  immediately,  only  wetting  her 
shoes  and  skirts  a  little. 

She  went  on,  singing,  while  the  glad  waves 
danced  up  each  side  her  road,  coming  nearer  and 
nearer,  narrowing  her  path. 

Still  she  went  on.  singing,  having  to  stop  some* 


168  GLORIA 

times  when  her  path  would  be  entirely  covered  by  a 
rising  wave,  and  wait  till  it  had  fallen  back. 

Then  again  she  went  on,  singing,  ever  singing, 
until  she  reached  a  spot  about  midway  between  the 
main  and  the  promontory,  when  a  wave,  higher  and 
stronger  than  before,  struck  her,  staggered  her,  and 
nearly  threw  her  down.  Then  for  a  moment  she 
quailed,  and  ceased  to  sing.  But  the  next  instant 
the  wave  had  receded  and  left  a  narrow  path  clear 
before  her. 

Then  she  hurried  on  again,  not  singing  now,  but 
with  an  awful  consciousness  of  danger  upon  her; 
an  awful  prevision  of  the  world  beyond  this,  which 
her  spirit  might  reach  before  her  body  should  touch 
the  shore. 

Another  higher,  stronger  wave  came  rising  and 
roaring,  and  struck  her  down.  It  receded  instantly, 
and  she  struggled  to  her  feet,  half  stunned,  stran 
gled,  and  blinded. 

Soon  the  path  was  entirely  under  water,  and  she 
had  to  wade  in  half  knee-deep,  and  with  that  pre 
vision,  awful,  holy,  sweet,  of  being  on  the  threshold 
of  the  other  life. 

"Mother,  mother,  if  I  must  go,  if  I  must  go,  come 
and  meet  me.  I'm  afraid,  oh,  Fm  afraid  of  the 
great  dark !"  was  her  mute  prayer,  as  another  grand 
wave,  howling  like  some  furious  beast  of  prey, 
reared  itself  above  and  threw  her  down. 

Once  more,  as  it  fell  back  howling,  she  struggled 
up  to  her  feet,  more  stunned,  strangled,  blinded, 
and  dazed  than  before,  and  toiling  for  dear  life, 
waded  on  knee-deep  in  water.  Her  limbs  were  fail 
ing,  her  head  was  dizzy,  her  senses  were  leaving 
her. 

"I  must  go — I  am  going.   Oh,  Lord  Jesus !   Thou 


GLORIA  169 

who  art  'the  Resurrection  and  the  Life/  raise  me! 
save  me !"  she  breathed,  in  a  strange  half  trance,  in 
which  she  saw  the  heavens  opened. 

And  at  that  moment  the  last  wave  struck  her 
down,  seized  her  and  whirled  her  away. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ON  A  STRANGE  BED 

Will  she  again, 
From  that  death-like  repose, 
When  those  sealed  eyes  unclose, 
Awake  to  pain?  ANON. 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  that 
saw  Gloria  de  la  Vera  swept  away  by  the  tide. 

In  the  cosy  cottage  on  the  sandy  islet,  old  Dame 
Lindsay  sat  over  the  bright,  open  wrood  fire,  knit 
ting  busily ;  the  tea-kettle  hung  over  the  blaze,  sing 
ing  merrily;  the  covered  "spider"  sat  upon  the 
hearth,  emitting  a  spicy  odor  of  baking  ginger 
bread;  the  black  "pussy"  was  coiled  up  in  one  cor 
ner,  and  the  white  puppy  in  the  other. 

The  tea-table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  set 
for  two  persons,  gay  with  the  best  cups  and  saucers 
on  the  bright  japanned  waiter,  and  tempting  with 
plates  full  of  delicately  sliced  ham  and  cold  bread, 
and  a  pretty  print  of  fresh  butter. 

Dame  Lindsay  at  length  rolled  up  her  knitting 
and  laid  it  aside  on  the  mantel -shelf ;  took  off  her 
spectacles  and  put  them  in  their  case,  and  that  into 


170  GLORIA 

her  pocket,  then  picked  up  the  little  iron  tongs  and 
lifted  the  lid  from  the  spider  to  examine  the  prog 
ress  of  her  cakes,  found  them  doing  well,  and  cov 
ered  them  again. 

Finally  she  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
across  the  sea  to  the  shore  where  the  wooded  hills 
rolled  backward  to  the  western  horizon,  behind 
which  the  setting  sun  was  dropping  out  of  sight. 

"Well,  now,  I  do  wonder  what  can  keep  David? 
He  promised  to  be  back  before  sunset,  and  he  never 
broke  a  promise  nor  missed  an  appointment  before," 
she  said,  as  she  held  one  hand  above  her  eyes  and 
scanned  the  track  of  waters  between  the  main  shore 
and  the  little  landing-place  on  the  islet. 

She  watched  until  the  sun  had  set,  the  faint  after 
glow  had  faded  from  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the  short 
winter  twilight  of  the  shortest  days  had  darkened 
into  night. 

"Something  has  happened.  I  trust  in  the  Lord 
it  is  nothing  ill,"  she  said,  as  she  left  the  window 
and  went  to  the  fireplace,  and  lighted  the  two  home- 
dipped  tallow  candles  that  stood  on  the  mantel 
piece. 

She  did  not  pull  down  the  blue  window  blind; 
she  left  it  up,  saying  to  herself : 

"He  shall  see  the  light  of  home  to  cheer  him 
across  the  dark  sea,  poor  lad." 

She  had  scarcely  said  so  much  when  the  sound  of 
hurrying  footsteps  smote  her  ears,  and  before  she 
had  time  to  cross  the  room,  the  door  was  violently 
pushed  open,  and  David  Lindsay  strode  into  the 
house,  bareheaded,  with  disordered  liuir,  haggard 
face  and  starting  eyes;  wearing  nothing  but  a  wet 
and  frozen  shirt  and  trowsers,  and  bearing  in  his 


GLORIA  171 

arms  a  girl's  lifeless  form,  wrapped  closely  in  his 
own  great-coat. 

"Gloria  is  dead !  She  is  dead !  I  saw  her  drowned 
before  my  eyes!  I  saw  her  drowned  before  I  could 
reach  her!  My  darling!  My  darling!  My  angel! 
Oh,  my  little  angel !"  he  groaned,  as  he  bore  her  to 
the  bed,  laid  her  on  it  and  dropped  on  his  knees, 
burying  his  head  beside  her. 

"Father  of  mercies!  how  did  it  happen?"  cried 
the  old  dame,  clasping  her  hands  in  anguish,  as  she 
came  up. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me  now !  Try  to  recover  her,  try  I 
Oh,  she  must  not!  shall  not  die!"  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  starting  like  a  maniac  from  his  kneel 
ing  posture,  and  staring  around  him  with  a  wild 
manner,  half  prayerful,  half  defiant,  wholly  insane. 

"Yes,  we  must  try!  We  must  never  give  up," 
quickly  replied  Dame  Lindsay,  who  in  her  long  life 
as  a  fisherman's  daughter,  wife  and  mother,  had 
had  varied  experience  in  drowned  persons,  resusci 
tated  or  buried. 

And  fast  as  age  and  infirmities  would  permit,  she 
scrambled  up  the  narrow  stairs  that  led  to  the  loft 
and  quickly  drew  the  blankets  and  mattress  from 
David's  bed  and  rolled  them  down  to  the  room  be 
low. 

Then  she  followed  them  in  their  descent,  and 
straightened  the  mattress  on  the  floor,  and  laid  the 
blankets  over  it. 

"Now  lift  her  up,  and  lay  her  here,  David,  and 
then  leave  the  room.  I  must  take  off  her  wet 
clothes,  wind  her  in  a  warm  blanket,  and  roll  her. 
That  I  must  do  without  your  help,"  said  the  a'ame, 
with  a  calm  authority  that  would  have  compelled 
obedience  from  any  one. 


172  GLORIA 

But  the  young  uian  indeed  was  so  stupefied  and 
distracted  by  anguish  and  despair,  that  he  was  more 
than  willing  to  be  led  or  driven. 

Moaning  and  groaning  in  bitterest  woe,  he  lifted 
the  lifeless  form  and  laid  it  on  its  right  side  on  the 
blanket  over  the  mattress  on  the  floor,  and  then 
went  up  stairs  and  threw  himself  down  near  the 
landing  to  pray  with  all  his  soul  for  her  revival, 
and  to  listen  with  all  his  senses  for  any  murmur 
of  her  returning  life  that  might  reach  him  there. 

Meanwhile  the  dame  rolled  the  drowned  girl  over 
on  her  face,  with  her  wrist  bent  under  her  forehead 
to  raise  it,  and  then  leaving  her  so  for  a  moment, 
went  and  hung  a  large  blanket  over  several  chairs 
before  the  fire.  Then  she  removed  the  wet  raiment 
from  the  victim,  and  laid  down  the  hot  blanket,  and 
rolled  her  over  and  wrapped  her  in  it,  and  rolled 
and  rubbed  until  some  good  results  began  to  appear, 
and  her  own  strength  to  wane. 

Then  she  called  to  the  anxious  watcher  above: 

"Come  down,  David,  and  help  me  now.  There  is 
hope,  my  lad.  There  is  hope!'7 

"Oh,  thank  the  Lord !  Thank  the  Lord !  From 
this  time  forth  I  will  live  to  the  Lord !"  exclaimed 
the  young  man  in  an  earnest  outburst  of  gratitude, 
too  deep  for  gladness,  as  he  hurried  down  the 
stairs. 

"Ah !  my  boy,  I  said  there  was  hope,  not  certain 
ty,"  sighed  the  dame. 

"If  there  is  hope,  there  is  certainty.  If  the  Lord 
'is  not  mocked/  neither  does  he  mock  his  children. 
I  have  prayed,  oh!  how  I  have  prayed!  And  the 
answer  is,  there  is  hope!  So  there  is  certainty!" 
exclaimed  David  Lindsay,  as  he  dropped  on  his 


GLORIA  173 

knees  before  the  prostrate  form  that  lay  wound  in 
the  blanket  on  the  mattress. 

"You  know  what  to  do,  David.  Lay  your  hand 
between  her  shoulders  and  continue  to  move  her 
gently  to  and  fro,  if  you  wish  to  save  her  life. 
When  I  get  the  bed  ready  we  will  lay  her  in  it,"  said 
the  old  woman,  as  she  spread  more  blankets  to  heat 
before  the  fire. 

When  they  were  ready  she  put  one  over  the  bot 
tom  sheet  in  the  bed,  and  called  her  grandson  to 
lift  the  precious  burden  just  as  it  was  and  lay  it 
there. 

When  he  had  obeyed  her,  she  spread  another 
warm  blanket  over  the  form,  which  now  began  to 
quiver  slightly  as  from  pain. 

"She  lives!  Oh,  thank  Heaven,  she  does  live!" 
cried  David. 

"Easy,  lad!  Easy!  There  is  more  hope,  but  no 
certainty  yet.  I  could  not  feel  any  pulse,  as  I  held 
her  wrist  just  now,"  said  Dame  Lindsay,  cautiously. 

In  mad  haste,  David  thrust  his  hand  amid  the 
wrappings  and  found  and  felt  the  delicate  wrist. 

"It  beats !  It  beats !  Her  pulse  does  beat !  I  can 
scarcely  feel  it,  it  is  so  small — but  it  beats!"  he 
cried. 

"I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  said  the  dame,  who  had 
taken  a  little  brandy  from  a  small  bottle  that  she 
kept  for  emergencies  and  put  it  into  a  mug  with 
some  boiling  water,  sugar  and  spice. 

When  the  highly  stimulating  cordial  was  ready, 
she  brought  it  to  the  bedside  and  looked  at  the  face 
of  the  girl. 

That  face  had  changed  from  its  white  repose  to 
a  look  of  helpless,  intense  suffering. 


GLORIA 

"You  see  ske  is  recovering!"  exclaimed  David, 
triumphantly. 

"Yes,  I  see  she  is,  poor  child!"  replied  the  dame, 
as  with  a  small  teaspoon  she  tried  to  pass  a  little  of 
the  spiced  brandy,  drop  by  drop,  between  the  pale 
and  writhen  lips. 

Much  has  been  falsely  said  and  written  about  the 
agony  of  death,  when  every  doctor  knows  that 
death,  in  itself,  is  no  agony  at  all ;  and  every  true 
Christian  feels  that  it  is  a  release  from  all  pain,  a 
delicious  falling  asleep,  for  a  few  hours,  to  awake 
in  the  glad  and  glorious  surprise  of  the  higher  and 
better  life. 

But  no  one  who  has  not  experienced  it  knows,  or 
can  know,  the  insufferable  anguish  of  resuscitation 
from  apparent  death.  The  almost  stagnant  blood 
beginning  to  circulate  again  through  nearly  col 
lapsed  veins  and  arteries,  inflicts  tortures  upon 
every  nerve — tortures  unheard  of  in  the  cruelest  in 
quisition.  Red-hot  needles  seem  to  be  piercing 
every  nerve  of  the  body  and  pore  of  the  skin.  It  is 
an  agony  that  even  the  torpor  of  the  brain  does  not 
overcome.  And  the  victim  writhes  and  moans  with 
anguish,  while  quite  unconscious  of  his  condition 
or  surroundings.  He  only  feels ;  he  knows  nothing. 

As  soon  as  the  sufferer,  struggling  through  pain 
back  to  life,  began  to  breathe  more  freely,  Dame 
Lindsay,  without  speaking  to  her,  or  in  any  way  dis 
turbing  her,  quietly  administered  a  composing 
drink  that  soon  sent  her  into  a  sweet,  natural  sleep. 
Then  she  placed  bottles  of  hot  water  to  her  feet  and 
between  her  shouders,  covered  her  up  very  warmly, 
and  hung  a  clean  quilt  before  the  bed  to  shade  her 
from  the  light  of  the  fire. 

"Now,  lad,   she  is  comfortable,  and  when  she 


GLORIA  175 

wakes  up,  whether  to-night  or  to-morrow  morning, 
she  will  be  all  right.  She  will  want  nourishment 
the  very  first  thing.  Fortunately,  I  have  got  that 
piece  of  beef  'ee  brought  for  to-morrow's  dinner.  I 
will  cut  the  lean  pieces  from  it  and  make  some  beef 
tea,  and  keep  it  by  the  fire  ready  for  her.  But  now 
carry  the  mattress  and  things  back  up  stairs  and 
come  back  to  'ee  supper.  'Ee  must  be  hungry  by 

this  time,  and Eh?  Why  there  'ee  stands  in 

'ee  wet  clothes  all  this  time,  and  I  taking  no  notice. 
Go  change  'em,  boy!  Go  change  'em  this  minute, 
or  'ee'll  get  'ee  death  of  cold.  Eh !  to  think  I  should 
'a  forgot  'ee !  But  the  lass  was  so  near  dead !  Go, 
lad,  go!" 

"Don't  be  uneasy,  grandmother.  I  don't  catch 
cold  from  sea  water ;  and  now  I  am  so  fired  with  joy 
and  gratitude  that  I  couldn't  take  cold,"  said  the 
young  man,  as  he  cleared  the  floor  of  bedding  and 
carried  the  bundle  up  stairs. 

Meanwhile,  the  dame  put  the  supper — hot  ginger 
bread  and  all — on  the  table;  and  by  the  time  she 
had  finished  the  work,  David  came  down  in  dry 
clothing  to  join  her. 

She  refrained  from  questioning  him  until  he  had 
got  through  with  his  evening  meal,  and  she  had 
cleared  away  the  table. 

Then,  when  they  were  seated  together  before  the 
cheerful  fire,  Dame  Lindsay  knitting,  and  occasion 
ally  watching  the  saucepan  which  contained  the 
beef  tea  she  had  made  and  set  to  simmer  on  the 
coals,  and  David  busy  with  a  bit  of  bone  carving  in 
his  hand,  the  old  woman  said : 

"Now,  lad,  tell  me  how  all  this  happened." 

"I  was  in  the  boat  coming  from  the  main  when  I 
happened  to  look  towards  the  Kogues'  Neck,  and 


176  GLORIA 

there  I  saw  some  one  attempting  to  cross.  The  pas 
senger  was  about  half  way  over  and  the  tide  was 
rising  rapidly.  I  knew,  of  course,  whoever  it  might 
be,  could  never  succeed  in  reaching  either  shore, 
but  would  certainly  be  overtaken  by  the  tide  and 
drowned  unless  I  could  reach  the  Neck  in  time  for 
rescue." 

"And  'ee  didn't  know  it  was  she?"  inquired  the 
dame. 

"No,  I  did  not  even  know  whether  it  was  a  man 
or  a  woman.  I  could  only  see  that  it  was  some  one. 
But  I  turned  and  rowed  as  fast  as  I  could  for  the 
Neck.  Then  I  saw  it  was  a  woman,  and  I  rowed 
faster  than  ever ;  for  the  tide  was  so  high  even  then 
that  she  could  scarcely  keep  her  feet." 

"Poor  lass!    Go  on,  David." 

"I  pulled  on  the  oars  as  hard  as  I  could  and  made 
the  best  speed;  I  shouted  to  her  to  take  courage. 
She  did  not  seem  to  hear  or  see  me;  but,  oh,  grand 
mother,  when  I  got  within  a  few  yards  of  that  spot 
I  recognized  her — in  the  same  instant  that  I  saw  her 
whelmed  off  and  whirled  away !  Indeed,  for  a  mo 
ment,  I  seemed  to  have  lost  my  senses.  But  soon  I 
rallied  and  rowed  to  the  spot  where  I  had  seen  her 
disappear.  Then  I  threw  off  my  overcoat  and  jacket 
to  be  ready,  and  I  watched  to  see  her  rise.  I  knew 
she  would  rise  near  the  Neck,  or  be  thrown  upon  it 
by  the  returning  wave,  so  there  I  watched.  I  saw 
her  rise  at  last.  I  threw  myself  into  the  sea,  dived 
as  she  went  down  again,  caught  her  raiment, 
dragged  her  to  the  surface,  and  drew  her  toward 
the  boat.  I  had  some  difficulty  in  recovering  the 
boat,  and  getting  into  it  with  my  precious  burden. 
She  was  quite  insensible  and  cold,  but  I  wrapped 
her  in  my  jacket  and  overcoat,  and  laid  her  down  in 


GLORIA  177 

the  bottom  of  the  boat  on  her  right  side,  with  her 
breast  and  face  turned  downward,  and  her  wrists 
bent  under  her  forehead,  and  I  kept  one  of  my 
hands  between  her  shoulders,  moving  her  gently 
from  time  to  time — as  we  do  to  recover  the  drowned, 
you  know — while  I  rowed  as  well  as  I  could  with 
the  other  hand,  and  so  reached  our  landing  at  last. 
I  brought  her  here  because  it  was  so  much  nearer 
than  her  own  home.  But,  oh,  granny,  when  I  lifted 
her  out  of  the  boat  I  thought  she  was  dead !" 

"So  she  would  have  been,  lad,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  'ee  care,"  said  the  dame. 

"And  have  I,  by  the  Lord's  help,  saved  her  life? 
Are  you  sure  she  will  take  no  fatal  harm  from  that 
ice-cold  plunge  in  the  sea?"  inquired  the  young 
man,  in  a  painful  doubt,  strangely  inconsistent  with 
his  expressed  confidence  at  a  less  hopeful  time. 

Before  replying  to  his  question  the  dame  went  to 
the  bedside  and  examined  her  patient,  then  she 
•came  back  and  said : 

"Yes,  lad,  'ee  has  certainly  saved  the  little  lady's 
life.  She  will  take  no  harm  now.  She  is  in  a  sound 
sleep  and  a  gentle  perspiration.  She  is  perfectly 
safe  now.  So  'ee  may  rest  satisfied." 

"  'Satisfied,'  dear  granny !"  exclaimed  the  youth, 
with  a  look  of  radiant  happiness  on  his  face.  "  'Sat 
isfied?'  Why,  I  am  overjoyed,  crowned,  blessed!  I 
would  rather  have  saved  her  precious  life  than  to 
have  won  all  the  wealth,  fame,  power  and  glory  of 
this  world !" 

"I  believe  'ee,  lad!   I  believe  'ee!" 

"But,  what  do  I  say?  The  glory  of  this  world? 
Why,  I  would  rather  have  saved  her  sacred  life  than 
have  won  Heaven !" 

"Eh!    Stop  there,  lad!    'Ee>s  growing  profane! 


178  GLORIA 

Is  that  'ee  gratitude  to  the  Lord?  Stop  at  the  glory 
of  this  world,  lad,  and  do  not  compare  any  earthly 
good  with  the  heavenly  blessedness,"  said  the  dame, 
laying  down  her  knitting  and  placing  her  spectacles 
high  on  her  cap  that  she  might  look  him  straight  in 
the  face  with  her  earnest  blue  eyes. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  profane,"  said  David, 
meekly. 

The  good  woman  resumed  her  work,  and  David 
took  up  his  own,  and  they  worked  in  silence  until 
the  hour  for  retiring  drew  near,  when  Dame  Lind 
say  finally  rolled  up  her  knitting,  took  off  her  spec 
tacles  and  put  them  both  away,  and  said : 

"Now,  David,  read  a  chapter  from  the  Word,  and 
then  get  'ee  to  bed,  lad." 

"And  you,  granny?  Where  will  you  sleep?"  in 
quired  the  young  man. 

"I  shall  sit  in  my  old  arm-chair  by  the  fire  as  long 
as  I  can  keep  up,  and  then  I  shall  lie  down  on  the 
bed  beside  the  lassie,  so  as  to  wake  readily  if  she 
should  stir." 

"Don't  sit  up  too  long,  dear  granny.  You  are  not 
able." 

"Don't  'ee  fear,  Davie;  I'll  lie  down  when  I  grow 
weary." 

David  brought  the  Bible  and  seated  himself  at 
the  table  opposite  his  aged  relative,  and  read  parts 
of  the  first  and  second  chapters  of  Matthew,  record 
ing  the  genealogy  and  birth  of  our  Saviour.  Then 
the  dame  folded  her  hands  and  reverently  prayed 
for  both,  that  they  might  be  able  to  receive  the  Lord 
in  their  affections  in  that  sacred  Christmas  season, 
and  be  led  by  Him  forever. 

"Now,  David,  lad,  get  'ee  to  bed,"  she  said,  as  she 
arose  from  her  knees. 


GLORIA  179 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  use  during  the  night,  will  you 
call  me,  granny?" 

"Ay,  lad,  be  sure  of  that." 

Then  David  kissed  her  withered  hand  and  went 
up  to  his  loft;  but  instead  of  going  into  bed,  he 
placed  himself  on  the  floor  with  his  feet  through 
the  trap-door,  resting  on  the  highest  step,  and  there 
he  sat  and  watched  and  listened  until  Christmas 
Eve  passed  into  Christmas  Morn. 

About  midnight  he  heard  his  grandmother  rise 
from  her  chair  and  cross  the  room,  to  lie  down  be 
side  the  sleeping  girl. 

Then  he  bent  his  head  and  called: 

"Granny!  granny!" 

"Ay,  lad,  what  is  it?" 

"Can  I  do  anything  at  all?" 

"Nay,  boy.    Get  ?ee  back  to  bed." 

She  did  not  suspect  that  he  had  not  been  in  bed. 

He  resumed  his  watch  and  kept  it  up  until  day 
light.  He  scarcely  heard  a  sound  from  below,  ex 
cept  an  occasional  slight  sigh,  or  motion  from  the 
old  woman,  who,  like  all  aged  persons,  was  a  very 
light  sleeper. 

When  morning  dawned,  David  heard  his  grand 
mother  rise  and  open  the  windows. 

Then  he  called  down  the  stairs  once  more : 

"Granny " 

"Ay,  lad." 

"Can  I  help  you  now?" 

"Ay,  lad,  put  on  ?ee  clothes  and  come  down." 

David  had  not  taken  off  his  clothes,  and  there 
fore  had  not  to  put  them  on.  He  instantly  descended 
the  narrow  stairs  and  stood  before  his  grandmother. 

"I  never  knew  ?ee  to  dress  so  quick,  lad,"  she 
said. 


180  GLORIA 

"That  was  because  I  was  not  undressed.  What 
can  I  do  first,  granny?" 

"Ay,  indeed !  'Ee's  been  sitting  up  all  night !  It 
was  a  useless  loss  of  rest,  Davie,  but  w<xll  meant. 
Take  'eeself  off  now  to  the  shed  and  bring  in  some 
wood,  lad." 

The  young  man  went  out  to  do  her  bidding,  and 
soon  returned  with  an  armful  of  brown  hickory 
logs,  which  he  laid  upon  the  fire. 

Then  he  took  the  tea-kettle  out  and  filled  it  from 
the  cistern  and  brought  it  back  and  hung  it  over  the 
blaze. 

Every  movement  of  the  old  woman  and  the  young 
man  was  made  quietly  and  noiselessly,  so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  calm  sleeper,  who  as  yet  gave  no  signs 
of  waking. 

"Now,  lad,  I'll  leave  'ee  here  to  watch  the  kettle. 
Take  it  off  as  soon  as  it  boils,  and  don't  forget  to 
turn  the  johnny  cake,"  said  Dame  Lindsay,  as  she 
took  her  fresh  sweet  pail  and  went  out  to  milk  the 
cow,  a  duty  she  would  never  allow  David  to  do  for 
her.  Indeed,  the  act  of  setting  a  man  or  boy  to 
milk  would  have  shocked  her  ideas  of  the  fitness 
of  things.  She  would  have  thought  it  an  insult  to 
the  cow. 

When  she  had  closed  the  door  behind  her,  David 
Lindsay  gave  a  glance  to  the  fireplace,  to  see  that 
all  was  right  there,  and  then  he  went  on  tiptoe  to 
the  side  of  the  bed  and  gazed  reverently  on  "the 
sleeping  beauty." 

The  quilt  that  had  been  hung  in  front  to  shield 
her  eyes  from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  fire  on  the 
previous  night,  when  repose  was  so  necessary  to  her 
shattered  nervous  system,  wras  now  removed  to  give 
her  more  air ;  for  the  time  had  come  when  it  would 


GLORIA  181 

be  well  for  her  to  awake.  The  bed  had  been  straight 
ened  into  perfect  order  and  the  white  counterpane 
drawn  up,  so  that  only  the  lovely  face,  laying  with 
its  right  cheek  on  the  pillow,  and  forehead  towards 
the  front  of  the  bed,  was  visible.  The  golden  hair 
had  been  drawn  away  from  the  nape  of  the  neck  and 
carried  up  over  the  pillow,  where  it  lay  a  shining 
mass  of  curls.  A  very  pathetic  face  it  was,  with 
the  tender  eyes  half  shut,  the  sweet  lips  half  closed. 
Her  sleep  looked  like  the  "deep  deliciousness  of 
death";  though  had  it  been  really  that,  it  might 
have  been  said  with  equal  truth  that  it  looked  like 
the  sweetest  sleep. 

David  Lindsay  sank  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed 
and  gazed  on  the  beautiful,  unconscious  face  turned 
towards  him,  as  he  never  would  have  dared  to  gaze 
had  those  features  been  instinct  with  wakeful  in 
telligence.  And  then,  out  of  the  fullness  of  his 
heart,  he  began  to  murmur  words  of  passionate  love 
to  those  sealed  ears  that  he  never  would  have  ven 
tured  to  utter  had  they  been  listening — words  of 
reverential,  worshiping  love,  that  for  their  inco 
herence  and  extravagance  could  scarcely  bear  rep 
etition  here.  He  lifted  a  tress  of  the  floating  golden 
hair  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  while  his  tears  fell 
thick  and  heavily. 

"Why  do  I  love  you?"  he  sighed  at  length.  "I 
know  it  is  vain,  and  worse  than  vain !  I  am  but  a 
clod  of  the  earth!  And  you,  what  are  you?  I 
scarcely  know.  Something  so  pure,  so  precious, 
so  sacred,  that  it  seems  sacrilege  to  touch  this  halo 
around  your  head,  these  peerless  tresses.  Yet  I  love 
you !  I  love  you !  Clod  as  I  am,  I  love  you,  oh !  un 
attainable  blessing!  I  might  as  well  love  a  queen 
on  her  throne,  the  sun  in  the  heavens,  the  moon,  or 


182  GLORIA 

any  glorious,  infinitely  distant  star!  Oh,  Gloria! 
Gloria !  Bright  seraph,  why  did  you  come  and  shine 
on  this  poor  earth  that  I  am,  to  quicken  it  with  a 
living  soul — to  wake  it  to  such  love,  such  suffering, 
such  despair?" 

Down  went  his  head  again  upon  the  side  of  the 
bed,  while  his  bosom  heaved  with  heavy  sobs,  and 
his  tears  fell  like  rain. 

"David  Lindsay." 

Her  sweet  voice  fell  on  his  ears  like  a  benediction. 

He  lifted  his  head.  She  was  awake,  and  gazing 
gently  on  his  troubled  face. 

"What  is  the  matter,  David  Lindsay?  What  has 
happened?"  she  inquired,  with  a  look  of  sympathy 
and  deep  perplexity. 

"Nothing ;  I  mean — yes,  something  has  happened, 
but  it  is  well  over,  and,  oh,  how  I  thank  heaven  to 
hear  you  speak  again !"  he  said,  with  an  effort  to 
recover  his  self-control,  as  he  arose  from  his  knees. 

"What?  Is  the  little  lady  awake  at  last?  Well, 
it  is  time.  It  would  not  have  been  good  for  her  to 
have  slept  longer,"  said  the  voice  of  Dame  Lindsay, 
who  had  just  entered  the  room  and  approached  the 
bed. 

"She  has  just  this  instant  opened  her  eyes,  and 
has  scarcely  yet  collected  her  thoughts,  I  think," 
said  the  young  man,  in  a  low  tone,  as  he  gave  place 
to  the  old  woman,  and  went  out  of  the  house  to  con 
ceal  from  her  the  traces  of  his  strong  emotion. 

"How  does  ?ee  feel,  dearie?"  inquired  the  dame, 
bending  over  the  revived  girl. 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  know,"  answered  Gloria, 
with  a  bewildered  look,  as  she  passed  her  hand  over 
her  forehead,  as  if  to  clear  away  some  mental  mist 


GLORIA  183 

of  forgetful  ness,  and  opened  her  eyes,  half  raised 
herself  in  bed  and  gazed  around  her. 

"Does  'ee  know  nie,  dearie?" 

"Oh,  yes,  dee-ar,  good  Dame  Lindsay,  but  I  don't 
remember " 

"Does  'ee  know  where  'ee  is,  darling?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do  know  this  dee-ar  old  cottage,  but 
I  can't  remember  coming  here  at  all !" 

"As  how  should  'ee,  indeed,  darling?  'Ee  knowed 
nothing  about  it!  Now,  don't  talk  any  more,  and 
don't  even  think,  if  ?ee  can  help  it;  but  lie  still 
until  I  bring  'ee  some  strong  beef  tea  to  nourish  'ee 
and  give  strength,"  said  the  good  woman,  as  she 
laid  the  girl's  head  back  on  the  pillow  and  drew 
the  counterpane  up  to  her  chin. 

But  a  change  came  over  Gloria's  face.  Dark  mem 
ory,  like  a  cloud,  arose  and  overcast  it ;  yet  she  mis 
took  the  reality  for  a  dream,  and  she  shuddered  as 
she  said : 

"Oh,  dee-ar  Granny  Lindsay,  don't  go  yet!  Give 
me  your  hand,  and  let  me  hold  you  fast!  I  am 
frightened — I  am  frightened " 

"What  is  the  matter  with  ?ee,  dearie?"  inquired 
the  sympathetic  woman,  as  she  gave  her  hand, 
which  the  girl  clasped  spasmodically,  and  held  fast. 

"Oh,  Granny,  Granny  Lindsay,  I  have  had  such  a 
horrid,  horrid  nightmare!  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
drowning,  and,  oh,  I  saw  and  felt  it  all,  as  if  it  had 
been  real !  Oh,  Granny  Lindsay,  don't  leave  me  yet, 
but  tell  me  what  has  happened,  and  how  I  came  to 
be  here?  Have  I  been  ill  a  long  time? — and  de 
lirious?  I  have  heard  of  people  being  so  ill  and  de 
lirious  that  they  could  know  nothing  of  the  passage 
of  time.  Uncle  was  so,  you  know,  after  auntie  died. 
Have  I  been  so  long?" 


184  GLORIA 

"No,  dearie,  'ee  couldn't  talk  so  fast,  if  'ee  had 
been/'  replied  the  dame,  with  a  smile. 

"Then  what  has  happened,  and  how  is  it  that  I 
am  here  instead  of  at  home?" 

"  'Ee  has  had  a  ducking  in  the  sea,  lassie,  no 
worse.  'Ee  was  swept  off  the  Rogue's  Neck  by  the 
tide,  when  ?ee  was  too  late  in  trying  to  cross,  and 
'ee  might  have " 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  it  was  no  nightmare,  but  an 
awful  fact!"  murmured  the  girl  to  herself,  as  she 
pressed  her  hands  upon  her  face. 

"And  'ee  might  have  been  drowned  sure  enough  if 
Davie  hadn't  seen  'ee  from  his  boat  and  picked  'ee 
up,  dearie." 

"David  Lindsay?"  breathed  the  girl. 

"Ay,  dearie,  David  Lindsay.  He  picked  'ee  up 
and  brought  'ee  home  here,  because  it  was  so  much 
nearer  than  the  hall,  'ee  knows,  dearie." 

"David  Lindsay  saved  my  life!"  murmured  the 
girl,  dreamily. 

"Ay,  little  lady,  he  did ;  and  so  'ee  got  no  worse 
harm  than  a  cold  ducking — though  indeed  'ee  was 
quite  insensible,  and  seemed  lifeless  when  'ee  was 
brought  here  in  the  arms  of  Davie.  But  'ee's  all 
right  now,  dearie." 

"David  Lindsay  saved  my  life!"  reiterated  the 
girl,  dwelling  fondly  on  the  words,  and  on  the 
thought. 

"Eh !  lass,  surely  yes,  and  we  must  thank  the 
Lord  that  'ee  wras  saved." 

"Yes ;  and  David  Lindsay,  too !  Oh !  I  am  pleased 
that  it  was  he,  my  old  playmate,  and  no  other. 
What  will  uncle  say  now?"  muttered  the  girl,  still 
dreamily. 

"Eh !  dearie,  he  wrould  say  that  'ee  ought  to  take 


GLORIA  185 

some  nourishing  food  immediately.  Ain't  *ee  hun 
gry  now,  say?" 

"Yes,"  promptly  replied  Gloria. 

"Now  'ee  knows  all  about  it,  'ee'll  not  be  afeard 
to  let  me  go?" 

"Oh,  no !"  said  Gloria,  smiling;  for  she  was  every 
moment  growing  better. 

The  dame  brought  her  the  beef  tea  and  dry  toast 
from  the  fire,  and  made  her  take  that  first,  saying : 

"  ?Ee  shall  have  a  cup  of  coffee  or  tea,  whichever 
?ee  likes,  presently;  but  this  is  the  best  for  'ee  now." 

Gloria  obediently  consumed  all  the  beef  tea  and 
dry  toast,  and  relished  both. 

"Now  I  feel  well ;  but  I  think  I  would  rather  lie 
here  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  not  try  to  get  up  yet, 
if  you  will  let  me,  dee-ar  Dame  Lindsay." 

"To  be  sure,  little  lady.  'Ee  should  lie  there 
quietly  all  the  morning,  and  when  'ee  rises  should 
rest  quietly  in  the  house  for  a  day  or  two.  Could 
'ee  be  satisfied  to  stay  here  till  ?ee  gets  over  the 
shock?" 

"Oh,  yes,  dee-ar  Dame  Lindsay,  I  was  always  so 
happy  when  here  with  you.  Oh,  I  wish  there  would 
come  a  snow-storm,  and  I  would  be  snow-bound  here 
for  a  long  time.  But,  oh,  poor  uncle!  Does  he 
know  that  David  Lindsay  saved  my  life?" 

"No,  dearie;  there  has  been  no  time  to  tell  him. 
It  is  early  in  the  morning  yet,  'ee  knows;  but  after 
breakfast  Davie  must  go  and  tell  him  that  'ee's 
safe." 

"And  that  I  must  stay  here  for  a  few  days," 
added  Gloria. 

"Surely,  dearie,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

At  this  moment  the  two  were  startled  by  a  loud 
knock. 


186  GLORIA 

Dame  Lindsay  got  up  to  answer  the  summons,  but 
before  she  could  cross  the  floor,  the  door  was  thrown 
violently  open  and  Colonel  de  Crespigney  strode 
into  the  room,  looking  pale,  haggard,  hurried,  and 
at  least  thirty  years  older  than  when  we  saw  him 
last. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

DRIVEN  TO  DESPERATION 

O,  shut  me  nightly  in  a  charnel  house, 
O'er  covered  quite  with  dead  men's  rattling  bones, 
With  reeking  shanks,  and  yellow,  chapless  skulls ; 
Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new-made  grave 
And  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud — 
Things  that  to  hear  them  told  have  made  me  trem 
ble— 

And  I  will  do  them  without  fear  or  doubt 
To  live  unstained.  SHAKESPEARE. 

"I  BEG  your  pardon  for  this  sudden  intrusion,  but 
— I  am  suffering  great — the  greatest  anxiety!"  he 
began,  casting  his  eyes  around  the  room.  "My 
ward  has  been  missing  since  yesterday.  Have  you 
seen — have  you  heard " 

"She  is  safe,  Colonel  de  Crespigney.  She  is  quite 
safe.  She  is  here,"  answered  Dame  Lindsay,  lead 
ing  the  visitor  around  the  headboard  of  the  bed, 
that  had  hitherto  hidden  the  recumbent  girl  from 
his  sight. 

"Gloria,  my  darling!"  he  exclaimed,  as  soon  as, 
his  eyes  fell  upon  her.  "Heavens,  what  a  fright  you 


GLORIA  187 

have  given  us !  What  insufferable  tortures  of  anx 
iety  and  suspense!  And  to  find  you  here,  and  in 
bed,  too !  What  does  all  this  mean?"  he  demanded, 
turning  in  more  displeasure  than  gratitude  to  the 
old  dame. 

"It  means  that  the  little  lady,  while  trying  to 
walk  across  the  Kogue's  Neck,  was  overtaken  by  the 
tide  and  swept  off  to  sea,  and  was  picked  up  by  my 
Davie,  who  happened  to  be  out  with  his  boat,  and 
who  brought  her  here  as  to  the  nearest  house,"  re 
plied  Dame  Lindsay. 

"What  is  all  this  that  she  tells  me,  Gloria?"  in 
quired  the  shocked  colonel. 

"The  truth,  uncle !  David  Lindsay  saved  my  life," 
said  the  girl,  with  a  glow  of  gratitude  and  pride. 

"A  gallant  deed,  for  which  he  shall  be  most  lib 
erally  rewarded,"  said  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  as  he 
sank  into  the  chair  that  Dame  Lindsay  had  silently 
placed  for  him  at  the  side  of  the  bed. 

Gloria  darted  a  glance  full  of  scorn  and  indigna 
tion  at  this  speech.  It  fell  harmlessly  on  the 
colonel's  unobservant  head,  and  he  repeated:  "A 
gallant  deed,  truly,  of  the  young  fisherman,  and  he 
shall  be  munificently  paid!  But,  my  dear  girl,  how- 
could  you  have  been  so  imprudent  as  to  cross  the 
main  alone?  Did  you  not  know  there  was  great 
danger?" 

"I  did  not  care.  I  was  weary  of  myself  and  every 
body  else!  And  now  I  am  very  glad  I  went,  for 
David  Lindsay  saved  my  life,"  said  Gloria,  luxuriat 
ing  over  the  words  and  the  thought. 

"I  say  it  was  a  brave  deed,  for  which  he  shall  be 
munificently  rewarded,"  repeated  the  colonel ;  "but 
still,  my  darling,  I  think  that  it  was  a  pity  your 
life  should  be  risked  for  the  sake  of  having  it  saved, 


188  GLORIA 

even  by  David  Lindsay,"  lie  added,  with  a  little  sar 
casm. 

"I  think  not!  The  risk  and  pain  are  compen 
sated  by  the  memory  left  behind — a  sweetness  that 
will  last  me  all  my  days/'  replied  the  girl,  as  a 
strange  tenderness  of  joy  melted  and  irradiated  her 
face. 

The  colonel's  brow  grew  dark.  He  did  not  speak 
for  a  few  moments ;  when  he  did  it  was  to  say : 

"My  dear  Gloria,  we  owe  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude 
to  this  good  woman  and  her  son — or  grandson,  is 
he?  But  we  must  not  trespass  on  their  kind  hos 
pitality.  I  am  sure  you  must  be  sufficiently  recov 
ered  to  rise  and  dress  and  return  with  me  to  the 
hall." 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  indeed  she  is  not.  She  has  been  so 
shaken  by  her  shock.  Take  an  old  'oman's  word  for 
it,  sir,  she  had  better  bide  here  a  day  or  two,"  said 
Dame  Lindsay,  speaking  earnestly  for  her  guest. 

"Indeed,  uncle,  she  is  right.  I  need  to  stay  here 
where  I  am/'  added  Gloria. 

"Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  withdraw  for  a 
few  moments  and  leave  me  alone  with  my  ward?  I 
have  something  to  say  to  her  in  private,"  said 
Colonel  de  Crespigney,  turning  to  the  woman. 

Dame  Lindsay  bent  her  head  and  went  up  into 
the  little  loft,  and  improved  her  time  there  by  mak 
ing  David's  bed. 

"Gloria,  my  dearest,  I  could  not  speak  freely  to 
you  in  the  presence  of  your  humble  hostess "  be 
gan  the  colonel ;  but  the  willful  girl  impatiently  in 
terrupted  him. 

"  'Humble  hostess,'  uncle?  Why  should  Dame 
Lindsay  be  called  'humble/  indeed?  I  call  her  my 
honored  hostess,  in  my  own  thoughts." 


GLORIA  189 

"Well,  well,  my  little  girl,  call  her  what  you  will. 
I  shall  not  differ  with  you.  But,  my  dear,  I  was 
about  to  say  that  it  is  not  fitting  or  proper  that  you 
should  remain  here  any  longer." 

"Why  is  it  not  fitting  or  proper,  uncle?" 

"Because  this  is  the  house  of  a  young  laboring 
man,  and  while  you  are  here  you  are  his  visitor." 

"But  I  am  his  grandmother's  guest,"  persisted 
Gloria. 

"No,  my  child,  no ;  the  house  is  his,  not  his  grand 
mother's.  The  position  is  unfit,  improper,  indeli 
cate.  I  wonder  you  do  not  see  that  it  is  so !" 

"No,  I  do  not  see  it.  But  if  any  one  sees  it,  that 
is  enough.  I  cannot  stay,  of  course.  I  will  go  home 
with  you,  uncle." 

"That  is  right,  Gloria.  That  is  right,  my  dearest 
girl.  I  thank  you,  love,  for  your  ready  acquiescence 
in  my  views  and  compliance  with  my  wishes.  As 
for  this  young  Lindsay,  who  is  such  a  favorite 
protege  of  yours — and  deservedly  so,  I  must  admit 
—he  shall  be  well  paid  for  the  service  he  has  ren 
dered  you.  I  will  send  him  a  check  for  a  thousand 
dollars  to-morrow." 

"Marcel !"  exclaimed  Gloria,  lifting  herself  up 
and  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  "if  you  do  such 
a  thing  as  that  I  will  never  forgive  you  as  long  as  I 
live  in  this  world!" 

"Gloria,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean?  Have  you 
gone  crazy,  child?" 

"No,  but  I  think  you  have !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say,  Colonel  de  Crespigney ! 
If  you  were  to  offer  David  Lindsay  money  for  sav 
ing  my  life,  I  would  never  speak  to  you  again  as 
long  as  I  should  live  on  this  earth !" 


190  GLORIA 

"But,  my  dear,  unreasonable  child,  why  should  I 
not  do  so?" 

"  'Why?'  I  wonder  you,  a  gentleman  and  a  sol 
dier,  you,  a  De  Crespigney,  cannot  see  why?"  said 
Gloria,  harping  a  little  upon  his  own  words  of  a  few 
minutes  past. 

"I  cannot  see ;  but  if  you  or  any  one  can,  I  should 
like  to  be  informed  of  the  reason,"  said  the  colonel, 
in  the  same  spirit. 

"Then  I  will  tell  you.  Suppose  it  had  fallen  to 
your  lot  to  rescue  Dame  Lindsay  from  drowning, 
and  David  Lindsay  had  offered  you  money,  as  much 
as  he  could  afford,  in  payment  of  your  services, 
what  would  you  have  thought?  How  would  you 
have  felt?" 

"My  dearest  Gloria,  the  cases  differ  totally,"  ex 
claimed  the  colonel,  with  a  flushed  brow. 

"They  do  not  differ  in  one  essential  point,  uncle, 
and  you  know  it,  and  feel  it  now,  if  you  neither 
knew  nor  felt  it  before.  I  will  yield  to  your  wishes 
and  return  home  with  you  to-day.  But  you  must 
not  insult  my  preserver  by  offering  him  any  sort  of 
reward  for  saving  me.  You  may  thank  him,  for 
yourself  and  for  me;  but  thank  him  as  you  would 
thank  General  Stuart,  or  Doctor  Battis,  or  any 
other  gentleman  of  your  acquaintance,  had  either  of 
them  rendered  me  the  same  inestimable  service." 

"My  dear,  absurd  child,  I  do  thank  him  more  than 
tongue  can  tell.  I  think  the  most  practical  way  of 
expressing  my  thanks  would  be  to  send  him  a  check 
for  a  round  £urn;  but  if  you  prefer  that  I  should 
take  off  my  hat  to  him  instead,  why,  I  will  do  that." 

"Yes,  do  that.  Take  off  your  hat  to  him.  And, 
now  please  to  go  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  there  and 
call  Granny  Lindsay  down.  She  will  get  cold  if  she 


GLORIA  191 

stays  up  in  that  fireless  loft  any  longer,"  said 
Gloria,  who  had  been  anxious  all  this  time  on  ac 
count  of  her  old  friend. 

"Mrs.  Lindsay,  Miss  de  ia  Vera  would  like  to  see 
you,"  said  Colonel  de  Crespigney,  from  the  foot  of 
the  ladder. 

"Ay,  sir,  I  will  come  down,"  answered  the  dame, 
and  she  immediately  descended. 

"Granny  Lindsay,  my  ancle  has  convinced  me 
that  I  ought  to  return  home  with  him.  I  am  very 
sorry  to  leave  you,  but  I  must  go!"  said  Gloria, 
gently. 

"Ah,  well,  dearie,  I  am  sorry,  too — but  of  course 
?ee  must  be  guided  by  'ee  gardeen,  little  lady,  and  I 
hope  'ee'll  take  no  harm.  ?Ee  clothes  are  all  dry 
and  ready  for  ?ee,  and  I'll  wrap  'ee  up  warm  and 
nice  for  'ee  little  journey,"  said  the  dame. 

"And  now,  uncle,  you  will  please  to  withdraw ! 
You  see  there  is  only  this  one  room  and  we  must 
take  turns." 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  smiled  good  humored ly 
enough  as  he  left  the  house  to  walk  up  and  down  in 
the  crisp,  cold  winter  air  outside. 

Dame  Lindsay  brought  the  girl's  clothes  from  the 
chair  over  which  they  had  been  hanging  near  the 
fire. 

"Granny  Lindsay,  where  has  David  Lindsay 
gone?"  inquired  Gloria,  as  she  arose  and  began  to 
dress  herself. 

"Down  to  the  shore  to  look  after  his  boat,  I 
reckon,  lovie;  or  maybe  he  has  crossed  to  the  main 
to  bring  a  load  of  brushwood." 

"He  hurried  away  as  soon  as  I  awoke  and  you 
came  in.  "  \ 


192  GLORIA 

"Yes,  dearie,  he  did  so  to  give  you  a  cliance  to  get 
up  and  dress,  I  reckon." 

"Will  he  be  back  before  I  go?" 

"I  hope  so,  dearie." 

Gloria  slowly  dressed  herself,  and  then  requested 
that  her  uncle  might  be  called  in. 

Dame  Lindsay,  meanwhile,  had  placed  coffee,  hot 
rolls,  and  broiled  ham  on  the  breakfast  table,  and 
now  she  went  to  the  door  and  summoned  Colonel 
de  Crespigney. 

"I  hope  you  will  do  us  the  pleasure  to  take  a  cup 
of  coffee  this  Christmas  morning,  sir,"  said  the 
dame,  as  she  placed  a  chair  at  the  table  for  her  last 
visitor. 

"Thanks,  no ;  I  took  coffee  before  I  left  home  this 
morning,"  answered  the  colonel. 

But  Gloria  sat  down  and  drank  a  little  cup  with 
her  hostess. 

Then,  not  to  keep  her  guardian  waiting  longer 
than  necessary,  she  arose,  and  put  on  her  hat  and 
sack  to  depart. 

"Good-by,  dear  friend,"  she  said,  offering  her 
cheek  to  the  old  dame's  kiss.  "Good-by.  I  shall 
never  forget  your  motherly  kindness  to  me.  And 
please  to  say  good-by  for  me  to  David  Lindsay,  and 
tell  him  that  I  shall  hold  my  life  sweeter  from  this 
day  forth,  because  he  saved  it." 

With  this  grateful  and  gracious  message  to  her 
preserver,  Gloria  joined  her  uncle  and  left  the  cot 
tage. 

Involuntarily  her  eyes  roamed  all  over  the  islet, 
in  search  of  her  old  playmate;  but  in  vain,  for  he 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"Lean  heavily  on  me,  my  child.  You  are  pale  and 
trembling,"  said  De  Crespigney,  tenderly,  as  he 


GLORIA  193 

drew  her  hand  under  his  arm  and  slackened  his 
steps  to  accommodate  them  to  her  weary  walk. 

When  they  reached  the  shore,  Gloria  looked 
around  again  for  some  signs  of  David  Lindsay's 
presence,  but  there  was  none  to  be  seen,  not  even  his 
little  boat;  and  this  was  a  certain  indication  that 
the  dame's  conjectures  pointed  to  the  truth,  and 
that  the  young  fisherman  had  crossed  to  the  main. 

With  a  sigh  Gloria  gave  up  the  hope  she  had 
cherished  of  seeing  and  thanking  him  in  person  be 
fore  leaving  the  island. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney's  boat  was  waiting,  and 
Laban,  who  had  seen  them  coming,  and  joyfully 
recognized  Gloria,  was  laying  on  the  oars. 

"Come,  my  dear,"  said  the  colonel,  as  he  handed 
his  ward  to  her  seat  in  the  stern ;  "come,  make  your 
self  comfortable.  Double  your  sack  over  your  chest. 
It  is  a  splendid  day  for  late  December,  but  the  air 
is  rather  keen  on  the  water." 

"Oh,  Miss  Glo'!  FS  so  glad  you's  safe!"  cried 
Laban,  grinning  ^rom  ear  to  ear.  "  'Deed  we  dem 
over  to  the  house  is  been  almos'  crazy  'bout  yer 
ebber  since  las'  night,  when  yer  didn't  come  home  to 
dinner.  And  me  and  Marse  Colonel  Discrepancy 
beatin'  de  main  woods  all  night  long!  All  de 
blessed,  live-long  Christmas  Bbe  night!  And  took 
Fiddle  'long  of  us  and  made  her  smell  some  o'  yer 
close,  and  didn't  she  take  a  round-about  ramble 
t' rough  dem  woods?" 

"Did  you  hunt  for  me  all  last  night,  Marcel, 
dear?"  inquired  Gloria,  with  more  tenderness  than 
she  had  shown  him  for  many  weeks. 

"Yes,  my  child.  Did  you  suppose,  Gloria,  that  I 
could  have  rested  one  moment,  anywhere,  from  the 
hour  that  you  were  missed  until  you  were  found? 


194  GLORIA 

It  was  at  dinner  that,  on  your  non-appearance,  I 
inquired  of  your  maid  why  you  did  not  come,  and 
was  told  that  you  had  been  gone  all  day  to  the  main, 
and  had  not  returned.  T  had  no  thought  but  that 
you  had  lost  yourself  in  the  woods,  and  so  I  set  out 
at  once,  with  Laban  here  and  your  little  dog 
Fidelle,  and  lanterns.  The  tide  was  low  when  we 
crossed  the  Neck.  The  little  animal  soon  struck 
your  trail,  and  convinced  me  that  I  was  right.  You 
have  been  told  how  she  kept  us  wandering  around 
in  a  circle  all  night.  In  the  morning,  as  a  forlorn 
hope,  we  returned  to  the  Promontory,  took  the  boat 
and  came  to  the  island  to  make  inquiries." 

"Oh!  Marcel,  dear,  I  never  realized  before  how 
much  distress  my  imprudence  caused  you,"  said 
Gloria,  penitently,  as  she  now  for  the  first  time  ob 
served  the  ravages  that  one  night's  intense  anxiety 
had  wrought  in  the  man's  face. 

"Yer  better  beliebe  it  den,  Miss  Glo' !"  spoke  up 
Laban.  "Ef  my  head  hadn't  been  gray  long  afore 
dis,  last  night's  doings  would  a  turned  it!  And 
dere's  'Phia,  gone  to  bed  long  of  a  sick  headache, 
and  'Mia  in  de  high-strikes." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  they  were 
rapidly  passing  over  the  water  between  Sandy  Isle 
and  the  Promontory. 

With  Labaii's  last  words,  the  boat  grounded  on 
the  beach  below  the  sea-wall,  and  the  boatman  drew 
in  his  oars. 

"Go  on  to  the  house  as  fast  as  you  can,  Laban, 
and  relieve  the  anxiety  of  your  fellow-servants,  so 
that  they  may  be  in  a  condition  to  attend  Miss 
Davero  when  we  get  home,"  said  Colonel  de  Cres- 
pigney,  as  he  handed  his  ward  from  the  boat. 


GLORIA  195 

The  man  very  gladly  obeyed,  and  ran  on  before 
them  so  rapidly  that  he  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  found  himself  alone  with 
his  ward  for  the  first  time  (with  the  exception  of 
the  few  minutes  they  had  talked  together  in  the 
little  island  cot,  whose  very  walls  had  ears). 

He  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  support 
ing  her  carefully,  walked  slowly  on  through  that 
boat-house  built  in  the  sea-wall,  and  then  up 
through  the  fields  and  ornamented  grounds  that  lay 
between  it  and  the  hall. 

"Gloria,  my  beloved,  can  you  really  estimate  all  I 
have  suffered  during  your  unexpected  absence?"  he 
inquired,  as  he  pressed  the  hand  that  rested  on  his 
arm. 

"Yes,  uncle,  I  think  I  can.  I  am  very  sorry.  I 
was  not  wrorth  so  much  anxiety,  uncle,  dear." 

"Do  not  call  me  uncle!  I  cannot  bear  to  hear 
you  call  me  so!"  he  burst  forth  with  such  energy 
that  the  girl  shrank  from  him,  and  shudded  through 
all  her  frame. 

"Gloria !  Do  you  not  understand  me?  Will  you 
never  understand  me?  Child,  I  can  smother  my 
feelings  no  longer !  I  have  tried  to  keep  silence,  but 
I  cannot!  Twenty-four  hours  of  agony  have  over 
come  my  last  power — self-control !  Oh,  my  love,  I 
love  you !  I  love  you !"  he  cried,  stopping  suddenly 
and  facing  her. 

"Uncle! — for  Heaven's  sake,  uncle!"  she  ex 
claimed,  in  deadly  terror. 

"Do  not  call  me  by  that  name  unless  you  would 
drive  me  mad !  I  am  not  the  least  kin  to  you !  I 
thank  the  Lord  I  am  not  your  uncle;  for  I  must  be 
— your  husband !  There,  it  is  spoken !  I  love  you, 
Gloria,  with  a  love  that  has  broken  down  every  bar- 


196  GLORIA 

rier  of  prudence,  self-control,  expediency,  every 
thing  !  I  love  you  with  a  love  that  is  my  fate,  and 
must  be  yours !  For  you  must  be  my  wife,  Gloria !" 
he  cried,  clasping  her  hands  in  his  and  gazing  on 
her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  burn  into  her  soul. 

One  amazed  and  terrified  look  she  cast  upon  him, 
and  then,  with  a  half-suppressed  cry,  she  broke 
away  and  fled ! 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    LAST    RESORT 

Me  miserable!  Which  way  shall  I  fly? 

MILTON. 

GLORIA  fled  towards  the  house,  sped  through  the 
open  door,  rushed  up  the  stairs,  nor  ever  paused 
until  she  had  reached  her  own  chamber  and  locked 
herself  within  it. 

There  she  sank  down  into  her  arm-chair  to  re 
cover  breath.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast,  her  head 
reeling. 

She  seemed  to  herself  on  the  point  of  swooning 
or  dying,  and  she  neither  feared  nor  cared  if  this 
were  her  last  hour  on  earth. 

She  only  feared  to  hear  again  the  revolting  words 
that  had  just  been  breathed  in  her  shuddering  ears. 
She  only  cared  to  escape  their  repetition. 

This,  then,  was  the  meaning  of  those  fixed  looks 
that  had  so  thrilled  her  nerves  and  curdled  her 
Mood — Marcel  de  Crespigney  wanted  to  marry  her ! 
Marcel,  whom  she  always  so  loyally  loved  as  her 
dear  aunt's  husband  and  widower,  and  as  her  own 


GLORIA  197 

uncle  by  marriage,  now  wished  to  make  her  his 
wife! 

She  shuddered,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  vision  of  such  a  mar 
riage. 

But  she  could  not  shut  out  the  vision  of  the  beau 
tiful,  rather  weak  face  that  arose  before  her  in  all 
its  pale,  pathetic,  appealing  sadness.  Those  large, 
dark,  melancholy  eyes  haunted  her. 

She  could  not  rouse  her  soul  to  any  anger  against 
.him.  She  loved  him  too  well,  as  she  had  always 
'done  from  her  earliest  infancy  to  this  moment.  She 
could  not  now  remember  the  day  when  she  had  not 
loved  him  better  than  any  one  in  the  whole  world. 
She  loved  him  now  as  well  as  ever — as  her  uncle, 
her  Marcel — but  she  loathed  him  as  a  suitor  for  her 
hand. 

And  withal  she  pitied  him  deeply. 

"Poor  Marcel !"  she  murmured  to  herself  when 
she  had  grown  a  little  calmer.  "Poor  Marcel !  He 
has  always  sacrificed  himself  for  the  happiness  of 
other  people — even  for  auntie — and  he  has  never 
had  any  happiness  himself.  And  now  he  is  losing 
his  reason.  He  certainly  is  losing  his  reason,  or  he 
would  never  dream  of  such  a  mad  act  as  marrying— 
Ugh!  I  will  not  think  of  it.  What  a  misfortune. 
What  can  have  caused  it?  His  long,  lonely  life 
perhaps.  And  perhaps  also,  as  he  loves  me  so  dear 
ly,  and  he  has  no  one  else  but  me  to  love,  he  is  afraid 
that  I  will  do  as  other  young  ladies  do — that  is, 
some  time  or  other,  marry  and  leave  him.  Foolish 
old  Marcel,  to  think  that  I  would  leave  him  for  any 
one  else!  If  he  did  but  know  me,  he  would  know 
that  I  should  never  marry.  But  the  more  I  think 
of  it,  the  surer  I  feel  that  that  is  the  reason  of  his 


198  GLORIA 

strange  conduct.  He  loves  me;  he  has  no  one  left 
but  me,  and  he  fears  that  I  will  leave  him,  and  so 
he  wants  to  marry  me  just  to  prevent  my  going,  and 
to  insure  my  staying  with  him  as  long  as  he  lives. 
But,  oh,  what  an  alternative!"  she  added,  with  a 
shudder. 

She  was,  however,  growing  calmer,  having  found, 
as  she  supposed,  a  solution  of  the  whole  difficulty. 

"Now,"  she  continued  her  mental  argument, 
"when  Marcel  is  made  to  understand  that  I  will 
never  leave  him  so  long  as  he  lives,  and  never  even 
wish  to  leave  him,  but  will  remain  with  him,  and  be 
perfectly  happy  with  him,  in  devoting  myself  en 
tirely  to  his  service,  as  the  most  loving  and  dutiful 
daughter  or  niece  could  do,  then,  of  course,  he  will 
be  perfectly  satisfied." 

The  ringing  of  the  first  dinner-bell  aroused  her 
from  her  reverie. 

"Poor  Marcel !"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  dare  say 
he  thinks  now  that  he  has  frightened  and  offended 
me  so  thoroughly  that  I  will  not  go  down  and  join 
him  at  dinner,  even  on  this  Christmas-day!  And 
indeed  he  did  more  than  frighten  me — he  shocked 
me  so  awfully  that  I  ain  sure  I  could  never  bear  to 
look  on  his  poor,  wretched  face  again,  if  I  had  not 
found  a  way  to  cure  him  of  his  madness,  and  make 
him  contented — a  way  that  will  not  require  any 
self-sacrifice  on  my  part  either,  for  I  never  dreamed 
of  marrying  and  leaving  him.  I  never  liked  the  idea 
of  marrying.  The  most  unhappy  people  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life  were  married  people — my  aunt  and  uncle 
— and  the  happiest  people  I  ever  knew  were  the  un 
married.  No!  I  will  never  marry  and  leave  my 
uncle !  And  when  I  make  him  understand  this,  he 


GLORIA  199 

will  renounce  his  foolish  and  sacrilegious  mania 
and  rest  contented  with  the  company  of  his  niece." 

While  turning  these  thoughts  over  in  her  mind, 
she  was  examining  the  contents  of  her  wardrobe  to 
select  a  dress  suitable  to  the  occasion. 

Gloria  de  la  Vera  had  always  dressed  in  a  style 
too  old  for  her  early  youth  and  bright  beauty.  The 
reason  wras  perhaps  that  she  saw  only  elderly  or 
aged  people. 

Now,  for  this  Christmas  tete-a-tete  dinner  with 
her  uncle,  she  wore  a  dark  blue  moire  antique,  with 
low  neck  and  short  sleeves  richly  trimmed  with  old 
point  lace.  Her  ornaments  were  heirlooms  of  her 
father's  family — earrings,  necklace  and  bracelets  of 
pearls  set  in  diamonds.  Her  rippling  golden  hair 
was  carried  back  from  her  forehead  and  gathered 
into  a  shower  of  ringlets  that  fell  over  a  low  comb 
from  the  top  of  her  head  to  her  graceful  shoulders. 

As  the  second  bell  rang,  she  opened  the  door  and 
descended  to  the  drawing-room. 

Meanwhile  Marcel  de  Crespigney  had  returned  to 
the  house,  entered  the  privacy  of  his  library,  and 
banged  the  door  to,  angrily,  behind  him. 

And  there  he  had  spent  some  hours  striding  up 
and  down  the  floor  and  calling  down  maledictions 
on  his  own  head  for  his  want  of  patience  and  self- 
control. 

In  the  midst  of  his  confusion  the  sound  of  the 
first  dinner-bell  smote  his  ears. 

He  did  not  attend  to  its  warning  to  go  and  make 
his  toilet,  but  continued  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
floor,  breathing  imprecations  upon  his  own  folly, 
until  the  more  imperative  clangor  of  the  second  bell 
summoned  him. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  I  have  so  offended 


200  GLORIA 

and  estranged  her  as  to  drive  her  away  from  the 
table  so  that  I  shall  have  to  dine  alone  on  Christ 
mas-day  !  Well,  it  will  serve  me  right  if  I  do !" 

And  with  another  malediction  upon  his  "mad 
ness,"  he  left  the  study  and  walked  slowly  and  sadly 
into  the  dining-room. 

How  great  was  his  surprise  and  pleasure  to  see 
his  beloved  Gloria  standing  with  her  hand  upon  the 
back  of  her  chair,  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

He  noticed,  too,  that  she  was  carefully  and  beau 
tifully  dressed — though,  with  her  moir6  antique,  old 
point  lace  and  diamonds,  more  in  the  style  of  a 
middle-aged  matron  than  a  very  youthful  maiden. 

She  was  looking  happy,  too — a  circumstance 
which  he  misunderstood  and  misinterpreted  in  his 
own  favor,  for  he  could  not  know  what  had  been 
passing  in  her  own  mind,  or  that  her  content  was 
founded  on  the  faith  that  she  had  discovered  a  per 
fect  solution  for  the  difficulty  in  which  she  had  pre 
viously  found  herself. 

If  the  servant  had  not  been  present  he  would 
have  expressed  his  contrition  for  having  frightened 
her,  and  his  delight  in  meeting  her  again,  but  there 
stood  Laban,  in  his  best  holiday  dress,  a  suit  of  fine 
black  broadcloth,  swallow-tailed  coat  and  continua 
tions,  black  satin  vest  and  spotless  linen,  exhibit 
ing  at  once  the  self-consciousness  of  a  dandy  and 
the  solemnity  of  a  bishop,  and  looking  disapproba 
tion  on  his  shabby  and  rusty  master,  who  had  made 
no  toilet  in  honor  of  the  Christmas  dinner. 

The  young  lady  of  the  house  took  no  notice  of  the 
colonel's  neglect;  yet  it  was  to  her  he  spoke,  of 
course,  when  he  said: 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,  my  dear,  for  appearing 
before  you  in  this  style,  but  really " 


GLORIA  201 

"Never  mind,  uncle,  dear.  We  are  alone,  so  what 
does  it  matter?  Who  has  a  better  right  to  appear 
in  comfortable  dishabille  at  his  own  table  than  you 
have?"  she  brightly  inquired,  thinking  at  the  same 
time  of  the  graver  apology  he  owed  her  for  a  heavier 
offence. 

He  naturally  misinterpreted  her  good  humor,  and 
rewarded  it  with  a  smile  of  gratitude. 

Though  they  were  but  two,  the  dinner  was  a  pro 
tracted  one,  for  there  were  many  courses,  and  the 
family  cook  would  have  felt  enraged  if  every  one 
of  them  had  not  been  honored. 

And  old  Laban — a  cross  between  a  bishop  and  a 
dandy — waited  with  solemnity  and  self-conceit. 

At  length  it  was  over,  and  they  adjourned  to  the 
drawing-room. 

"Shall  I  play  Luther's  Christmas  hymn  for  you, 
uncle,  dear?"  inquired  Gloria,  as  she  seated  herself 
before  the  piano. 

"Yes,  love,  thank  you,  play  that,  but  no  more;  for 
I  wish  to  talk  with  you  and  settle  something  before 
I  can  take  any  interest  in  anything  else,"  he  replied. 

Gloria  sat  down  and  played  and  sang  with  all 
her  usual  feeling,  spirit  and  charm. 

When  she  had  finished  her  hymn,  she  arose  and 
went  to  the  fire  and  seated  herself  beside  her  guard 
ian  ;  for  she  also  wished  to  talk  to  him,  and  "settle 
something"  which  she  believed  would  content  then> 
both. 

Colonel  de  Crespigney  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  was  too  sudden  with  you  this  morning,  dear. 
I  did  not  stop  to  consider  how  your  nerves  had  been 
shaken  by  the  frightful  accident  of  yesterday,  and 
so  I  startled  you  by  a  too  abrupt  disclosure  of  my 
feelings."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added: 


202  GLORIA 

"I  beg  you  to  forgive  my  want  of  consideration,  dear 

child,  and  to  let  me  hope "    He  paused  again, 

and  she  took  his  hand  and  said  kindly : 

"Say  no  more  about  it,  uncle,  dear.  I  understand 
— I  understand — and  I  have  something  to  reply, 
presently." 

"You  understand,  and  yet  you  call  me  uncle !"  he 
said,  wincing. 

"It  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  Marcel,  dear.  A 
mere  matter  of  habit.  I  will  learn  to  call  you  any 
thing  you  please,  so  that  I  may  make  you  happy," 
she  answered,  affectionately. 

"And  you  will  let  me  hope — you  will  let  me  hope 
— that  some  day,  not  far  off,  you  will  give  yourself 
to  me  entirely;  you  will  be  my  own,  my  precious, 
my  pearl  beyond  price,  my  best  gift  of  God — MY 
WIFE?"  he  breathed,  in  low,  deep,  intense  tones, 
while  his  whole  dark  face  grew  radiant  with  happi 
ness.  He  took  her  hand  and  gazed  into  her  eyes. 
She  drew  her  hand  away,  averted  her  head  and 
shrank  from  him. 

"My  timid  one,  what  are  you  afraid  of?"  he  ten 
derly  inquired,  drawing  nearer  to  her,  and  attempt 
ing  gently  to  steal  his  arm  around  her  waist,  for  he 
still  fatally  misunderstood  her. 

"Don't,  uncle,  don't!  This  is  madness!  This  is 
sacrilege!"  she  exclaimed,  withdrawing  herself 
from  his  gentle  caress.  "I  am  not  timid,  uncle; 
but  don't  do  that  again,  or  you  will  drive  me  out  of 
your  sight  forever,"  she  added,  as  she  walked  away 
to  a  distant  window,  and  stood  there,  pale  and 
trembling,  looking  out,  but  seeing  nothing. 

Marcel  de  Crespigney  remained  where  she  had 
left  him,  leaning  back  into  his  chair,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  fire — like  hers,  seeing  nothing. 


GLORIA  203 

He  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her  to  apologize  or 
explain.  He  was  sorely  perplexed. 

After  a  few  moments,  when  she  had  had  time  to 
compose  herself,  she  came  back  to  her  seat  and 
said: 

"When  I  ran  away  from  you  this  morning,  I  was 
too  much  shocked  and  distracted  to  understand 
anything  rightly,  or  to  know  what  to  do.  But  after 
I  had  come  to  myself  I  began  to  reflect,  and,  at 

length,  I  comprehended "  She  paused,  as  if  to 

think  a  little  longer. 

"Yes,  dear;  I  know,  I  know.  I  will  give  you 
time.  I  will  be  very  patient,"  he  replied,  very  gen 
tly  and  contentedly,  for  he  still  widely  misinter 
preted  her.  She  did  not  know  that  he  did  so  mis 
interpret  her,  and  thus  they  were  unconsciously  at 
cross-purposes. 

"And,"  slowly  continued  the  girl,  "as  soon  as  I 
comprehended,  I  resolved  to  come  to  you  and  tell 
you  something  that  I  have  determined  upon,  and 
which  I  think  will  harmonize  our  lives,  and  make 
us  both  happy." 

"Yes,  love,  yes,  speak  freely,  speak  plainly!"  he 
breathed  hardly,  suppressing  every  impulse  to  draw 
nearer  to  her,  or  to  touch  her  hand  that  hung  so 
near  his,  over  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"Well,  then,  Marcel,  dear — oh!  it  is  difficult  to 
speak  of  marriage,  even  negatively,  as  I  shall ! — but, 
Marcel,  I  know  you  have  been  thinking  that  some 
day  I  might,  as  other  young  folks  do,  marry  and 
leave  my  home  for  another;  and  so,  to  prevent  me 
from  doing  that,  you  dreamed  of  the  impossible 
plan  you  proposed  to  me " 

"  'Impossible,'  Gloria?"  he  repeated,  as  his  happy 
face  gloomed  and  darkened. 


204  GLORIA 

"Yes,  'impossible,'  because  insane,  profane,  sacri 
legious!  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it!  Do  not 
compel  me  to  think  of  it — even  negatively — after 
this!" 

"Gloria !"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  pain  and  reproach. 

"Hear  me  out,  dear  Marcel!  for  indeed  I  mean 
to  reassure  you !  Listen,  then !  Since  you  love  me 
so  well  that  you  would  even  marry  me — ugh ! — 
rather  than  lose  me,  hear  me  promise,  Marcel,  that 
you  shall  never  lose  me.  I  will  never,  never,  never 
leave  you  to  marry  any  one  at  all !  I  will  stay  with 
you  and  be  your  own  faithful,  affectionate,  devoted 
niece,  loving  you  as  if  I  were  your  daughter — loving 
and  serving  you  as  my  dear  uncle,  and  even  as  if  you 
were  my  own  father!  Now,  Marcel,  I  promise  to 
do  this  on  the  word  of  a  de  la  Vera,  whose  very 
name  is  Truth !  if  only  you  would  give  up  this  mad 
and  sacrilegious  idea  of  me,  which,  of  course,  I 
know  you  will  readily  do." 

"And  is  this  your  plan  for  'harmonizing  our 
lives'  and  making  me  happy?"  he  groaned,  with 
such  a  look  of  anguish  that  Gloria  could  not  en 
dure  it.  With  a  low  cry  of  pain  she  averted  her 
face. 

"But,  child,  I  will  not  torture  you,  as  I  see  I  am 
doing  now.  Time  and  patience — time  and  patience 
work  wonders.  I  must  wait  and  hope — wait  and 
hope,"  he  breathed,  with  the  reiteration  of  misery. 

She  arose  and  stood  behind  him,  and  with  her 
hand  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  murmured : 

"Marcel,  I  am  not  angry,  but  I  am  very,  very  un 
happy.  I  must  go  now  and  stay  by  myself  a  little 
while." 

"Go,  then,  Gloria!  Go!"  he  moaned,  without 
turning  to  look  at  her. 


GLORIA  205 

Gloria  fled  to  her  own  room ;  but  even  there  the 
agonized  face  she  had  left  behind  followed  her, 
haunted  her,  and  tormented  her. 

Then  she  dressed  herself  in  her  seal  jacket  and 
hat  and  went  out,  and  walked  up  and  down  under 
the  cold  starlight  of  the  Christmas  night  until  she 
was  so  weary  that  she  could  walk  no  longer. 

Finally  she  returned  to  the  house  and  retired  to 
bed  without  again  seeing  her  guardian. 

The  terrible  mental  trials  of  the  days  and  weeks 
that  followed,  surpass  all  powers  of  description. 

The  deep,  devoted,  constant  love  of  Marcel  de 
Crespigney  for  the  beautiful  child  he  called  his 
ward,  had  been  fanned  by  opposition  and  fear  of 
disappointment  into  an  intense  and  insane  passion. 
He  lost  all  patience,  all  self-control;  he  could  no 
longer  refrain  from  pleading  with  her  or  caressing 
her,  even  when  he  saw  that  his  words  and  actions 
inflicted  tortures  unendurable  upon  the  gentle  and 
sensitive  soul. 

And  Gloria,  she  suffered  with  a  subtle  anguish, 
difficult  to  analyze,  impossible  to  describe.  As  his 
niece  and  child,  she  loved  and  pitied  her  uncle,  with 
all  her  young,  compassionate  heart,  even  as  she  had 
loved  and  pitied  him  from  her  earliest  infancy  up 
to  present  girlhood.  But  with  her  Christian  faith 
and  training  she  believed  his  suit  to  her  to  be  most 
sinful  and  sacrilegious,  and  she  shrank  from  it  in 
horror  and  loathing  unspeakable  and  indescribable. 
Yet,  whenever  she  betrayed  these  emotions  of  fear 
and  abhorrence,  the  look  of  utter  misery  they  would 
call  up  on  his  face  would  cause  a  momentary  re 
vulsion  of  feeling  in  her,  melting  her  heart  to  ten 
derness  and  sympathy. 


206  GLORIA 

He  would  be  quick  to  see  this  change  and  gather 
hope  from  it. 

Sometimes  during  the  day,  when  her  pity  for  him 
almost  broke  her  own  heart,  she  would  be  on  the 
verge  of  sacrificing  all  her  future  life,  her  religious 
principles,  her  very  soul's  salvation,  only  to  give 
him  happiness,  to  drive  away  the  look  of  misery 
from  his  face,  and  see  him  smile  again. 

Sometimes  at  night  she  would  dream  that  she  had 
really  done  this,  that  she  had  become  her  uncle's 
wife.  Then  she  would  awake  with  a  cry  of  terror 
and  rejoice  that  it  was  but  a  dream.  At  other 
times  she  would  not  wake  so  soon,  but  would  dream 
on  of  being  married  to  her  uncle,  and  horrified  by 
her  position  and  trying  to  run  away  to  hide  herself, 
to  drown  herself,  to  do  anything  rather  than  to  fall 
into  his  hands,  or  be  compelled  to  live  with  him  as 
her  husband,  and  so  she  would  moan  and  sigh  in 
her  troubled  sleep  throughout  the  night,  and  wake 
at  last  prostrated,  depressed  and  miserable,  with 
the  thought  that  all  too  probably,  in  some  weak 
moment  when  pity  should  be  in  the  ascendant,  this 
hideous  dream  might  become  a  more  hideous  reality. 

She  had  no  refuge  in  her  wretchedness,  no  mother, 
sister  or  friend  to  whom  she  could  confide  her 
troubles.  She  could  not  even  go  away  from  her 
guardian  or  from  Promontory  Hall.  She  had  no 
protector  in  the  world  but  him,  no  home  on  earth 
but  his  house.  Besides,  he  was  her  lawful  guardian, 
and  had  a  guardian's  power  over  her — if,  indeed, 
he  ever  should  choose  to  exercise  it  against  her  will, 
as  he  never  yet  had  done,  and  as  she  was  sure  he 
never  would  do.  But  this  power  would  last  until 
she  should  become  of  age,  or  until  she  should  marry ; 
for  by  the  terms  of  her  father's  will,  her  bondage  as 


GLORIA  207 

a  ward  was  to  terminate  with  her  majority  or  her 
marriage.  Thus  she  had  no  refuge  from  the  guard 
ian  who  never  sought  to  coerce  her  inclinations  in 
any  way,  but  through  her  affections,  through  her 
love,  sympathy  and  compassion,  had  gained  an  ever- 
increasing  and  most  fatal  power  over  her. 

More  and  more  dangerous  grew  her  position  as 
days  and  weeks  went  by.  Every  day  she  was 
weaker,  looking  on  her  lover's  despair.  Every  night 
her  dreams  were  more  terrible  in  their  likeness  to 
reality.  To  prove  the  degree  to  which  her  brain 
and  nervous  system  were  becoming  affected,  she  be 
gan  to  be  confused  by  dreams  within  dreams — in 
this  way :  She  would  dream  that  she  awoke  from  a 
dream,  and,  waking,  found  that  she  was  really  mar 
ried  and  miserable! 

So  utterly  distracted  was  her  mind  that  she  could 
never  be  sure  what  was  vision  and  what  reality. 

She  felt  herself  falling  into  a  despair  that  touched 
insanity,  and  inspired  deadly  horror  of  the  ultimate 
results. 

"I  am  sinking,  day  by  day,  deeper  and  deeper  to 
wards  perdition  !  One  of  two  things  will  happen  to 
me.  I  shall  go  mad  in  this  struggle — I  shall  go 
mad  and  drown  myself — or  else  I  shall  marry  Mar 
cel  and  murder  him !  If  I  could  only  die  decently 
before  being  driven  to  such  extremity!  Heaven 
help  me  and  save  me,  for  I  cannot  help  or  save  my 
self  !"  she  moaned,  in  utter  anguish. 

But  the  crisis  was  fast  approaching. 

It  happened  on  a  morning  near  the  last  of  Jan 
uary. 

The  guardian  and  ward  left  the  breakfast-room; 
he  had  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  library-door, 
and  she  was  on  her  way  out  for  a  walk,  when  he 


208  GLORIA 

called  her,  and  begged  her  to  come  in  and  sit  with 
him  for  a  little  while. 

The  meekness  of  this  prayer  moved  her  to  grant 
the  boon. 

Without  a  word  she  turned  and  followed  him 
into  the  library. 

He  threw  himself,  with  a  sigh,  into  his  great 
leathern  arm-chair,  beside  his  writing-table.  She 
drew  forward  a  low  ottoman  and  seated  herself  at 
his  feet,  as  she  had  loved  to  do  in  the  quiet,  peace 
ful  days  they  had  spent  together,  just  after  her  re 
turn  home. 

There  was  something  now  in  his  face  and  manner 
so  broken,  subdued,  resigned,  as  to  touch  her  deep 
ly  with  tender  compassion,  and  draw  her  into 
demonstrations  of  sympathy  and  affection  that  soon 
deprived  him  of  all  self-control.  Before  he  was 
aware,  he  reached  down  his  hands,  caught  her  up 
in  his  arms,  strained  her  to  his  bosom,  and  pressed 
passionate  kisses  upon  eyes,  cheeks  and  lips,  while 
speechless,  breathless,  she  struggled  and  fluttered 
like  a  captured  bird,  until,  at  length,  she  broke 
away  and  fled  from  him. 

He  sat  where  she  had  left  him,  grieved  and  an 
gered  with  himself  for  having  shocked  and  dis 
tressed  her  whom  he  loved  better  than  his  own  life ; 
he  cursed  himself  and  his  weakness  and  his  folly 
as  he  had  never  done  before!  He  resolved  that 
henceforth  he  would  put  such  a  guard  upon  himself 
as  never  to  offend  her  again,  by  word  or  look.  He 
would  not  intrude  upon  her  in  any  way;  but  when 
he  should  see  her  again  he  would  humbly  express 
his  contrition  and  sorrow  for  having  offended  her, 
and  would  earnestly  beg  her  forgiveness. 

And  she  would  forgive  him;  for,  after  all,  what 


GLORIA  209 

great  wrong  had  he  done?  Only  kissed  her  against 
her  will;  kissed  her  rather  roughly,  perhaps,  but 
that  was  because  she  resisted  him.  What  great  of 
fence  was  in  that?  he  asked  himself.  Had  he  not 
seen  in  the  parlor  games  of  forfeits  played  in  many 
a  country  house — had  he  not  seen  young  men  "pick 
cherries,"  as  they  called  it — run  after  a  young  girl 
and  catch  and  kiss  her  by  force,  if  not  against  her 
will,  and  been  punished  only  by  a  slap  on  the  face, 
administered  with  a  laugh? 

"Gloria  is  too  fastidious,  too  morbid,"  he  said  to 
himself. 

Yet  somehow  he  could  not  so  excuse  himself  to 
his  own  conscience.  Gloria  was  pure,  dainty  and 
refined,  and  he  was  very  culpable  in  his  conduct  to 
ward  her,  his  conscience  told  him. 

Now  he  resolved  that  he  would  ask  her  pardon, 
and  after  obtaining  it  he  would  be  more  discreet 
and  respectful  in  his  manner  towards  her  until  his 
love  and  patience  should  win  her  to  be  his  wife. 

Too  LATE. 

Marcel  de  Crespigney  was  never  in  his  life  again 
permitted  to  look  on  the  face  of  Gloria  de  la  Vera. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

GLORIA'S  RAGE 

My  drops  of  tears 
I  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

TERRIFIED  and  enraged  beyond  aiay thing  that  she 
had  ever  experienced  in  all  the  days  of  her  life, 


GLORIA 

offended  and  revolted  beyond  all  hope  of  reconcilia 
tion,  Gloria  had  fled  from  the  presence  of  her  guard 
ian  and  sought  the  sanctity  of  her  own  room. 

There  she  locked  herself  in,  and  sat  down  to  re 
cover  her  lost  wits  and  breath. 

She  sat  there,  looking  not  like  the  glad  little  Glo' 
whom  we  first  knew,  and  whose  pulse  was  music 
and  whose  breath  was  song — no,  she  sat  there,  with 
her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her  chin  in  her  hand, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  shrunk  to  half  their 
size,  gleaming  with  twice  their  fire,  and  glowing 
like  live  coals  from  the  white  ashes  of  her  pale  and 
angry  face — she  sat  there  like  some  grim  little 
Sphinx  or  Nemesis  brooding  revenge  and  plotting 
ruin. 

"I  hate  him  now.  I  can  never  bear  to  look  upon 
his  face  again !" — so  ran  her  thoughts.  "To  dare 
to  kiss  me  on  my  lips !  Why,  my  own  beloved  father 
seldom  kissed  me  except  upon  my  brow.  And  David 
Lindsay,  my  old  playmate  and  my  preserver,  who 
loves  me  so  unselfishly — David  Lindsay,  as  he  knelt 
beside  my  bed,  on  the  morning  after  he  had  saved 
my  life,  only  lifted  a  curl  of  my  hair  and  pressed 
it  to  his  face,  and  when  he  saw  ine  wake  and  look  at 
him,  he  laid  the  tress  down  reverently,  as  if  it  were 
something  almost  too  sacred  to  be  touched.  And 
he  is  a  poor,  uncultivated  man.  And  to  think  that 
this  gentleman,  this  officer,  this  Colonel  de  Cres- 
pigney,  should  have  so  forgotten  his  honor!  This 
guardian  should  have  so  betrayed  his  trust  as  to 
seize  and  hold  me  powerless  and  kiss  me  on  my  lips 
in  spite  of  all  my  struggles  and  distress!  Oh,  the 
meanness  of  the  act !  the  meanness  of  the  act !  No, 
I  can  never  trust  him  again.  I  can  never  bear  to 
see  his  face  again.  I  will  not  spend  another  day  in 


GLORIA  211 

his  house.  But  where,  oh,  where  shall  I  fly?  I 
have  no  place  in  the  world  to  go  to !  Or,  if  I  had, 
there  is  no  place  to  which  he  would  not  follow  me — 
not  to  compel  my  return,  though  as  my  guardian 
he  could  do  that.  But  he  would  not;  he  would  do 
even  worse;  he  would  so  humble  himself  to  me, 
would  so  plead  with  me,  would  look  so  heart-broken 
that  he  would  be  sure  to  prevail  with  me  and  coax 
me  back.  Oh,  Heaven!  oh,  Heaven!  if  I  cannot 
trust  him,  neither  can  I  trust  myself!  I  hate  him, 
and  I  fear  him,  and  yet  I  pity  him  and  love  him, 
too !  And  who  knows  but  that  in  some  moment  of 
idiotic  pity  I  may  not  consent  to  all  he  pleads  for 
and  contract  this  repulsive  marriage?  Then  I 
should  go  mad  and  murder  him,  or  kill  myself. 
That  is  what  I  am  afraid  of.  That  gulf  of  black 
ruin!  What  shall  I  do?  Oh,  what  shall  I  do? 
Where  can  I  fly  from  him  and  from  myself?  Who 
will  save  me  from  myself  and  from  him?  Oh,  WHAT 
shall  I  do?" 

She  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand  and  reflected 
intently  for  some  minutes,  but  could  think  of  no 
plan  by  which  to  escape. 

Suddenly,  without  any  volition  of  her  own  will, 
there  flowed  into  her  soul  an  inspiration.  She 
started  and  raised  her  head  as  one  listening  to  a 
suggestion.  Her  cheeks  flushed  and  paled,  and 
flushed  again,  and  her  eyes  brightened  as  she  arose 
and  exclaimed : 

"Yes,  I  will!  I  will  do  it!  I  will  marry  David 
Lindsay.  I  will  put  one  pure,  good,  brave  man 
between  me  and  the  Evil !  I  do  not  care  though  he 
is  poor  and  rough.  I  know  he  is  good  and  true, 
noble  and  honorable!  No  gentleman  in  the  land  is 
more  so.  I  can  trust  David  Lindsay — trust  him 


GLORIA 

utterly.  He  would  never  kiss  me  against  my  will 
— never  wound  or  offend  me  in  any  way.  Yes,  I 
will  marry  my  old  playmate,  David  Lindsay,  and 
we  will  keep  house  in  earnest  as  we  used  to  do  in 
fun.  And  then  I  shall  be  free — free  as  air — for  I 
know  that  by  the  terms  of  my  father's  will,  my 
guardian's  power  over  me  and  my  estate  ceases  on 
the  day  of  my  marriage.  I  know  it,  for  I  have  often 
heard  Aunt  Agrippina  say  how  thoughtless  it  was 
in  my  father  to  make  such  a  proviso  in  his  will. 
'For  suppose,'  she  would  say,  'some  fortune-hunter 
should  marry  the  child,  you  have  no  power  to  pre 
vent  it,  or  to  withhold  her  estates.'  That  is  the  way 
I  found  it  out.  And  I  am  glad  it  is  so,  for  now  I 
can  marry  David  Lindsay,  and  enrich  dear  Dame 
Lindsay,  and  let  them  take  me  to  one  of  my  own 
fine  houses  and  live  with  me  in  comfort.  Or  David 
might  go  to  Harvard  or  Yale,  and  get  the  college 
training  he  has  so  long  aspired  to,  and  leave  Dame 
Lindsay  to  take  care  of  me.  I  will  do  it  at  once !" 

It  is  wonderful  how  swiftly  the  mind  acts  under 
excitement.  This  whole  plan  swept  through  the 
mind  of  Gloria  in  a  few  minutes  succeeding  the  first 
inspiration  of  the  idea. 

She  did  not  now  hesitate  for  an  instant.  She 
dressed  herself  quickly,  and  in  the  best  and  warmest 
suit  she  possessed.  I  said  that  she  always  dressed 
in  the  style  of  an  old  woman  rather  than  that  of  a 
young  girl.  Now  she  put  on  a  black  velvet  suit,  a 
seal-skin  sack  and  hat.  The  hat  was  the  only  girlish 
article  she  wore.  Finally  she  drew  on  her  brown 
kid  gloves,  took  her  muff  and  started  for  the  door. 
But  before  she  opened  it  she  remembered  that  she 
would  need  more  personal  effects  than  she  wore;  so 
she  laid  down  her  muff,  drew  off  her  gloves,  and 


GLORIA  213 

went  and  found  and  packed  a  small  Russian  leather 
traveling-bag  that  had  been  her  companion  on  her 
tour  through  Europe.  This  she  hung  upon  her  arm, 
then  taking  her  muff,  she  left  the  room. 

On  reaching  the  landing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
she  found  Lamia  engaged  in  brightening  the  knobs 
of  the  parlor  doors. 

"Where  is  your  master?"  she  inquired  of  the  girl. 

"In  de  liberary,  a  tearin'  up  and  down  de  room 
like  Old  Black  Sam  was  into  him — beggin'  yer  par 
don  for  say  in'  ob  sich  things,  Miss  Glo'.  Does  you 
want  me  to  go  and  tell  him  you'd  like  to  see  him 
'fore  you  goes  out?" 

"No,  not  at  all,"  replied  the  young  lady. 

"Well,  where  shall  I  say  you  is  gone,  if  he  ax  me, 
Miss  Glo'?" 

"Tell  him  that  I  have  gone  to  take  a  long  walk, 
and  he  is  not  to  wait  dinner  for  me." 

"And  when  shall  I  say  you'll  be  back,  Miss  Glo'?" 

"You  needn't  tell  him  when,  for  I  don't  know  my 
self." 

"Well,  so  as  you  gets  back  'fore  sun-down,  I 
s'pose  marse  will  be  satisfied,"  said  the  unsus 
picious  girl,  as  she  resumed  her  rubbing  of  the  brass 
knob  then  under  her  hand. 

Gloria  then  left  the  house  to  hasten  on  her  mad 
errand. 

She  walked  rapidly,  like  one  still  acting  under  a 
high  pressure  of  excitement. 

She  reached  the  boat-house,  which  was  no  longer 
kept  locked.  She  passed  through  it  and  went  out 
upon  the  beach,  for  it  was  now  low  tide. 

There  she  found  a  little  boat  that  she  had  some 
times  been  in  the  habit  of  rowing,  near  the  shore. 

Now  she  got  into  it,  put  down  her  hand-bag  and 


GLORIA 

her  muff,  unhooked  the  boat-chain  and  threw  it 
ashore,  took  the  oar  and  pushed  the  boat  off  the 
sands,  then  seated  herself  and  rowed  for  the  little 
sandy  island.  The  water  was  perfectly  smooth,  and 
her  arms  were  braced  by  a  strange,  tense  resolve. 
She  sped  swiftly  over  the  intervening  half  mile,  and 
in  ten  minutes  reached  her  destination.  She  drew 
in  her  oar,  and  using  it  as  a  pole,  struck  it  into  the 
sands  and  pushed  the  boat  up  on  the  beach. 

Then  she  picked  up  her  hand-bag  and  muff  and 
sprang  ashore. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  still,  looking  all  around 
for  a  chance  sight  of  David  Lindsay;  for  maddened 
as  she  was  at  this  moment,  there  was  "method" 
enough  in  that  "madness"  to  make  her  unwilling 
to  go  on  to  the  cottage  and  meet  the  placid,  steady, 
conscientious  Dame  Lindsay. 

She  soon  descried  the  young  fisherman.  He  was 
standing  on  the  shore  at  some  distance,  bending  over 
an  upturned  boat,  engaged  in  repairing  it.  His 
position  prevented  him  from  seeing,  and  the  sound 
of  his  own  hammer  from  hearing  her  approach,  of 
which  he  remained  quite  unconscious  even  when 
she  stood  by  his  side. 

She  had  nerved  herself  for  the  trial  before  her, 
yet  now  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  blood  had  forsaken 
her  extremities  and  curdled  about  her  heart,  so 
pallid  was  her  face. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  at  his  side  while  he  con 
tinued  to  hammer  industriously  at  his  work,  quite 
unconscious  of  her  presence,  until  she  spoke  to  him 
in  a  low  tone. 

"David  Lindsay." 

He  started,  dropped  his  hammer,  turned,  took  off 
his  hat,  and  stood  waiting  her  commands.  He  had 


GLORIA  215 

not  seen  her  since  the  morning  after  he  had  saved 
her  life,  and  now  he  was  too  much  amazed  at  her 
sudden  appearance  on  the  isle  to  find  any  word  by 
which  to  welcome  her.  He  could  merely  wait  for 
her  to  make  known  the  object  of  her  visit. 

For  some  moments  she  too  continued  silent.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  it  must  take  her  life  to  utter  the 
words  which  she  had  come  resolved  to  speak,  and 
with  which  this  story  opened : 

"David  Lindsay,  will  you  marry  me?" 
It  is  not  necessary  to  go  over  any  part  of  that 
scene  already  related.    It  must  be  still  fresh  in  the 
minds  of  our  readers. 

Well  might  the  young  fisherman  be  struck  dumb 
with  amazement  and  terror;  well  might  his  half 
palsied  tongue  refuse  to  utter  any  word  but  her  own 
name,  and  that  in  a  tone  of  unbounded  consterna 
tion  ;  for  must  not  the  lovely  girl  and  wealthy  heir 
ess  have  lost  her  reason  before  making  a  proposal 
of  marriage  to  any  man,  least  of  all  to  him — the 
poor,  uncultivated  young  laborer?  And  when  he 
had  heard  all  that  she  had  to  say,  well  might  he 
groan  forth,  in  tones  of  deepest  sorrow : 
"Miss  de  la  Vera,  it  is  you  who  are  mad !" 
"  <Mad  T  *Mad  r  "  she  echoed,  her  face  reflecting 
the  dismay  so  plainly  revealed  on  his  own  counte 
nance.  "  *Mad !'  Oh,  indeed,  perhaps  I  am !  But, 
oh,  David  Lindsay,  if  I  am  mad,  so  much  the  more 
need  have  I  of  your  protection!  If  I  am  mad,  oh, 
my  old  playmate,  marry  the  poor  mad  girl  to  take 
care  of  her,  to  save  her  from  herself,  to  save  her 
from  something  worse  than  madness!  to  save  her 
from  sin!  from  crime!  from  murder!  from  suicide!" 
she  exclaimed,  her  vehemence  and  wild  excitement 
increasing  with  every  word. 


216  GLORIA 

"Great  Heavens,  Miss  de  la  Vera !  What  has  hap 
pened  to  drive  you  to  this  extremity?"  cried  the 
young  man,  turning  deadly  pale,  in  dread  of  he 
knew  not  what.  "Tell  me  all !  Everything,  freely ! 
You  know  that  my  heart  is  yours — my  life  is  at  your 
feet,  to  do  your  will  with !  You  know  that  I  would 
do  anything  on  earth  you  wish  me  to  do,  unless  it 
would  be  to  do  you  any  wrong.  Now  you  plead 
with  me  to  do  that  which  would  make  this  world 
a  paradise  to  me,  unless  it  should  make  it  a  purga 
tory  to  you.  Now  tell  me  all.  But  first  sit  down. 
You  are  trembling  so  that  you  can  scarcely  stand," 
he  added,  as  he  threw  off  his  pea-jacket,  folded  it 
and  laid  it  on  the  overturned  boat,  to  make  her  a 
comfortable  seat. 

She  sank  down,  mechanically,  too  absorbed  in  the 
subject  of  her  thoughts  to  notice  how  he  had  ex 
posed  himself  to  the  cold  for  her  convenience. 

That  she  might  speak  with  the  less  embarrass 
ment,  he  stood  a  little  behind  her.  And  then,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  she  told  him  all! 
And  she  ended  with  these  words — fearful  words  for 
her  to  speak  and  for  her  old  playmate  to  hear : 

"And,  oh,  David  Lindsay!  you  know  how  I  al 
ways  loved  my  uncle!  loved  him  with  the  holy,  ten 
der,  caressing  love  of  a  child  for  its  father!  And 
I  love  him  so  still !  And  I  do  pity  him  infinitely,  be 
cause  he  suffers,  and  has  always  suffered  so  much ! 
But,  oh,  when  he  wants  to  marry  me,  I  hate  him, 
oh,  I  hate  him  with  the  hate  of  a  demon !  I  could 
kill  him  at  such  times!  I  could!  I  sometimes 
dream  that  I  have  married  him  and  murdered  him, 
and  am  flying  from  justice !  or  that  I  am  in  a  con 
demned  cell,  or  on  the  scaffold,  and  I  wake  in  a 
cold  sweat  of  terror  and  horror.  And  it  may  come 


GLORIA  217 

to  this,  David  Lindsay !  It  may  come  to  this  unless 
you  save  me !  I  can  trust  you,  my  old  playmate,  I 
can  trust  you  utterly!  And  to  whom  could  I  fly 
but  to  you?  Who  knows  me  so  well  as  you?  To 
whom  am  I  so  well  known  ?  Whom  have  I  on  earth 
but  yoa,  David  Lindsay?  Do  not  stand  behind  me! 
Come  around  here  and  let  me  see  you,"  she  con 
cluded,  slightly  turning  her  head. 

"God  forgive  me  if  I  do  wrong !  God  forgive  me 
if  this  great  temptation  blinds  me  to  the  right!" 
murmured  the  young  man  as  he  left  his  position  be 
hind  her  seat. 

And  then — not  because  she  was  a  high-born  heir 
ess  stooping  to  him,  a  poor  fisherman — no,  indeed, 
for  there  was  nothing  abject  in  David  Lindsay's 
nature;  but  because  she  was  a  young  girl  driven  to 
humiliation  as  unprecedented  as  it  was  undeserved 
— -he  came  and  humbled  himself  before  her,  sank  on 
his  knees  at  her  feet,  took  her  hand,  bowed  his  fore 
head  upon  it  and  said : 

"See  me  here  at  your  bidding.  I  am  your  own, 
your  slave,  to  do  your  will  in  everything.  Tell  me 
what  to  do!" 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  rise  and  sit  beside  me,"  she 
murmured,  with  the  tears  springing  to  her  eyes. 

He  obeyed  her  and  waited  for  her  further  words. 

"Take  me  away  from  here  at  once,  David  Lind 
say  !  Take  me  to  Washington,  where  we  can  be  mar 
ried.  Then  to  my  own  house  of  Gryphynshold ! 
There  I  shall  be  safe!  You  know  where  that  is?" 

"In  Virginia — yes." 

"Take  me  there,  and  from  that  place  communi 
cate  with  my  guardian,  who  must  then  come  to  a 
settlement  and  yield  up  all  authority  over  me,  or 


218  GLORIA 

my  estate;  for  such  were  the  terms  of  my  father's 
will." 

"The  steamboat  from  Norfolk  to  Washington  will 
stop  at  La  Compte's  Landing  this  afternoon.  If  we 
cross  about  now  we  will  be  sure  to  meet  it,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"Then  go  and  get  ready  for  your  journey  at  once, 
David  Lindsay.  I  will  sit  here  and  wait  for  you. 
But  what  will  Granny  Lindsay  say  to  your  sudden 
departure?  And,  oh,  what  will  she  do,  here  by  her 
self?  I  never  thought  of  that  before,"  said  the  girl, 
compunctiously. 

"Do  not  distress  yourself,  lady.  All  things  work 
together  for  your  will  to-day ;  for  this  morning  my 
grandmother  left  home  for  the  first  time  in  many 
years,  and  for  an  absence  of  some  days,"  replied 
the  young  man. 

"Granny  Lindsay  from  home !"  exclaimed  Gloria, 
in  surprise,  not  unmixed  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 

"Yes,  she  is  gone  to  St.  Inigoes  to  keep  house  for 
the  brethren  until  they  can  procure  another  house 
keeper  in  place  of  the  one  recently  deceased.  You 
know  they  will  not  take  one  under  sixty  years  of 
age,"  added  David,  gravely. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  she  will  not  be  left  alone  here !" 
exclaimed  Gloria. 

"Come  up  to  the  house,  then,  will  you  not,  and 
rest  in  granny's  room,  while  I  go  in  my  roost  and 
make  ready?" 

Gloria  silently  arose  and  followed  him. 

When  they  entered  the  neat  room,  David  placed 
a  chair  for  his  young  guest,  then  put  the  brands  of 
tire  together  on  the  hearth,  kindled  them  to  a  blaze, 
and  hung  the  tea-kettle  over  it. 

"Why  do  you  take  that  trouble?"  she  inquired. 


GLORIA  219 

"You  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  before  you  go.  It 
will  not  take  any  extra  time,  since  the  kettle  will 
come  to  a  boil  while  I  am  getting  ready,"  he  replied, 
as  he  went  up  the  ladder  stairs  that  led  through  the 
trap-door  to  his  own  loft. 

Gloria  heard  him  walking  to  and  fro,  as  he  made 
his  preparations  for  the  unexpected  journey.  She, 
on  her  part,  could  not  sit  still.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  in  one  of  her  nightmare  dreams  from  which  she 
could  not  wake.  And  again  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
going  mad. 

A  sweet,  homely  household  sound  aroused  her 
from  this  morbid  mood.  It  was  the  singing  of  the 
tea-kettle  over  the  fire.  A  happy  thought  came  to 
her.  She  would  play  housewife  for  David  Lindsay 
this  once  before  leaving  the  cottage.  She  had  spent 
days  enough  in  the  little  place  to  know  where  all 
the  stores  were  kept. 

So  she  went  first  to  the  corner  cupboard  with  the 
glass  door,  and  opened  it  and  found  the  little  black 
tea-pot  and  the  tin  tea-cannister,  and  made  the  tea 
and  set  it  to  draw. 

Then  she  drew  out  the  little  red-stained  pine 
table,  found  the  white  cloth  and  the  buck-handled 
knives  and  forks  and  the  plated  spoons  in  the 
drawer,  and  arranged  them,  then  took  the  cups  and 
saucers  and  plates  from  the  corner  cupboard,  and 
finally  she  went  out  to  the  "safe"  in  the  shed,  to 
which  in  her  childhood's  days  she  had  so  often  fol 
lowed  Dame  Lindsay,  and  found  bread,  butter,  milk 
and  cold  meat,  all  of  which  she  brought  and  put 
upon  the  table. 

When  her  self -assumed  task  was  completed,  she 
sat  down  to  wait,  but  felt  too  restless  to  sit  long. 
Soon  she  arose  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the 


GLORIA 

floor,  when  David  Lindsay  descended  the  ladder 
stairs,  equipped  for  his  journey,  and  carrying  a 
large,  black  oil-skin  bag  in  his  hand. 

"Ah !  why  did  you  weary  yourself  with  this  work, 
lady?  I  should  soon  have  done  it  for  you,"  he  said, 
as  he  glanced  at  the  completed  preparations  for  a 
meal. 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  do  it.  It  is  not  the  first  time 
I  have  set  the  table  for  you  and  me,  is  it,  David 
Lindsay?  Don't  you  remember  our  little  dinners, 
cooked  with  a  driftwood  fire  on  the  beach?  Don't 
you  remember  the  flat  stone  we  used  to  have  for  a 
table,  and  the  crash  towel  for  a  tablecloth?" 

"Do  I  not?"  he  asked,  as  a  warm  smile  irradiated 
his  face.  This  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him 
smile  since  her  sudden  appearance  on  the  island. 

"Come  and  sit  down,  then,  and  I  will  pour  out 
the  tea." 

They  placed  themselves  at  the  table,  upon  which 
she  had  already  set  the  tea-pot.  They  made  some 
pretence  of  eating  and  drinking,  and  then  Gloria 
inquired : 

"Have  we  time  to  put  everything  in  order  before 
we  go?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  responded  the  young  man,  "quite  time 
enough." 

And  together  they  went  to  work  and  cleared 
away  the  table,  and  washed  and  replaced  the  dishes. 

Next  they  took  all  the  meat  and  bread  and  fish 
that  was  in  the  house  and  put  it  out  in  the  shed,  so 
that  Priscilla  and  Nicholas,  the  cat  and  dog,  might 
have  something  to  eat  during  the  week  of  Granny 
Lindsay's  absence. 

Then  David  Lindsay  covered   up   the  fire,   and 


GLORIA 

locked  up  the  house,  all  except  the  door  by  which 
they  would  go  out. 

"Ah !  suppose  Granny  Lindsay  should  come  back 
very  soon?"  said  Gloria. 

"She  will  not  come  back  before  I  have  time  to 
write  her  a  letter,  inclosed  in  one  to  the  priest,  and 
telling  them  both  all  about  our  position,"  said 
David  Lindsay. 

"That  is  all,  then.  I  believe  I  have  no  other 
anxiety/7  said  Gloria,  as  they  left  the  house  to 
gether. 

David  Lindsay  walked  in  advance,  carrying  his 
own  large  bag  in  one  hand,  and  Gloria's  little  one 
in  the  other. 

Gloria  followed,  with  her  hands  in  her  muff,  and 
so  they  reached  the  sands  where  she  had  landed. 

"We  shall  have  to  use  your  boat,  lady  dear,  since 
mine  lies  bottom  upward  on  the  beach,  waiting  for 
repairs/7  he  said,  as  he  placed  the  two  bags  in  the 
skiff  and  handed  his  companion  to  a  seat  in  the 
stern. 

"It  is  uncle's  boat ;  but  we  can  send  it  back  by  a 
man  from  La  Compte7s  Landing/7  replied  Gloria, 
as  her  escort  took  the  oars  and  laid  himself  stoutly 
to  them. 

They  first  crossed  the  water  to  a  landing  on  the 
main  opposite  the  little  island.  David  Lindsay 
pushed  the  boat  up  on  the  sands,  and  beckoned  to 
an  old  negro  man  who  was  seen  standing  in  the 
open  door  of  his  hut,  and  commissioned  him  or  his 
wife  to  go  across  to  the  island  every  day  to  attend  to 
the  needs  of  Winny,  the  cow,  and  to  the  pig  and  the 
poultry ;  and  gave  them  the  use  of  all  the  milk  and 
eggs  until  Dame  Lindsay's  return. 


GLORIA 

Then  he  pushed  off  and  rowed  away  from  the 
place. 

La  Compte's  Landing  lay  two  miles  down  the 
coast,  and  it  took  a  half  hour's  hard  rowing  to  reach 
its  wharf  and  boat-house  on  the  sands.  Above  these 
the  land,  covered  with  a  thicket  of  trees,  rose 
abruptly  for  several  hundred  feet.  From  the  midst 
of  the  trees  on  the  summit  might  be  seen  the  chim 
neys  and  peaked  roof  of  La  Compte's  Lodge,  and, 
farther  down,  the  steeple  of  St.  Luke's  church. 

"This  is  my  place  also,  David  Lindsay,  and  it  will 
soon  be  our  place.  But  I  would  not  live  here.  It  is 
too  near  the  Promontory,"  said  Gloria,  as  they 
landed. 

An  old  negro  man  stood  by  the  flagstaff. 
"Gwine  to  take  de  boat,  sar?"  he  inquired  of  the 
young  man. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  latter. 

Whereupon  the  negro  ran  up  the  red  flag.  That 
was  the  signal  for  the  steamboat  to  stop  for  passen 
gers. 

"Dey's  so  few  folks  trabelin'  by  water  dis  'clem 
ent  season  ob  de  year  dat  it  'most  don't  seem  much 
use  to  'ploy  a  flagman  to  come  down  yer  twice  a 
week  to  'tend  it.  But  dey  do  tell  me,  better  come 
ten  times  for  noffin  dan  to  let  one  passenger  be  dis 
appointed." 

"But  couldn't  passengers  hoist  the  flag  for  them 
selves?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

"Dem  as  understood  could;  but  it  ain't  ebery 
stranger  as  comes  down  here  to  take  de  boat  what 
knows  dey  is  got  to  raise  de  flag.  An'  ?less  de  flag 
is  riz,  de  boat  won't  stop,  when  it  ain't  got  nobody 
on  board  to  land  here.  And  now,  young  marse,  de 
boat'll  be  here  in  a  foo  minutes." 


GLORIA  223 

"David,  dear,  come  here,  please,"  said  Gloria, 
walking  off  to  a  little  distance. 

He  followed  her  and  she  placed  in  his  hand  a 
well-filled  pocket-book. 

"What  is  this  for?"  he  inquired. 

"For  our  expenses.  I  forgot  to  hand  it  to  you 
before;  forgot  even  that  it  would  be  needed;  but 
you  had  better  take  it  now,  before  we  go  on  the 
boat." 

He  flushed  crimson  to  the  very  edge  of  his  black 
hair,  as  he  gave  her  back  the  pocket-book  and  said : 

"No,  lady,  dear,  I  do  not  need  it,  indeed;  I  have 
saved  something  from  years  of  labor,  and  I  have 
plenty  for  our  present  needs." 

It  was  now  Gloria's  time  to  blush. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  David  Lindsay;  I  did  not 
know,  indeed  I  did  not  mean " 

But  he  interrupted  her  by  lifting  her  gloved  fin 
gers  to  his  lips,  bowing  over  them,  and  leading  her 
back  to  the  wharf.  Then  he  went  to  the  old  flag 
man,  and,  giving  him  some  money,  engaged  his  ser 
vices  to  take  back  Colonel  de  Crespigney's  boat  to 
the  Promontory  pier,  and  leave  it  there. 

By  this  time  the  steamer  was  seen  puffing  its  way 
towards  the  wharf. 

In  a  few  minutes  it  drew  alongside  and  stopped. 

A  plank  was  thrown  across  to  them  and  the  two 
passengers  went  on  board. 

A  few  minutes  more,  and  the  steamer  was  blow 
ing  her  way  up  the  bay  for  the  mouth  of  the  Poto 
mac  River. 

"You  shall  never  repent  this  if  my  life  can  help 
it,  lady,  dear — though  it  is  for  you  'a  leap  in  the 
dark/  "  whispered  David  Lindsay  to  the  grave-faced 


GLORIA 

child  that  leaned  upon  his  arm,  as  they  stood  alone 
together  on  the  deck  of  the  steamboat. 

"No,"  said  Gloria,  "it  is  not  a  leap  in  the  dark — 
it  is  a  spring  into  liberty  and  light." 


CHAPTER    XVII 
WED 

?Tis  sure  some  dream,  some  vision  vain, 

What  I,  the  child  of  rank  and  wealth, 

Am  I  the  wretch  that  wears  this  chain? 

G.  M.  L. 

THE  sky  was  gray,  the  wind  high,  and  the  sea 
rough,  yet  David  and  Gloria  remained  on  deck.  He 
had  led  her  to  a  bench  behind  the  wheel-house,  and 
there  they  sat,  partly  sheltered  from  the  blast. 

As  the  old  flagman  had  truly  said,  there  were  not 
many  travelers  by  the  steamboat  at  this  inclement 
season  of  the  year — only  a  few  country  tradesmen, 
picked  up  at  different  points  along  the  shores  of  the 
bay,  who  were  taking  time  by  the  forelock  and  going 
to  the  Northern  cities  to  purchase  their  spring 
goods. 

All  these  were  total  strangers  to  Gloria  and 
David;  and  as  they  lounged  or  sauntered,  talking 
politics  or  smoking  pipes,  to  and  fro  from  stem  to 
stern,  on  the  deck,  they  scarcely  bestowed  a  glance 
upon  the  young  pair,  seated  behind  the  wheel-house, 
who,  indeed,  kept  themselves  aloof  from  all  their 
fellow-passengers,  until  the  ringing  of  the  tea-bell 
brought  them  all  down  together  into  the  ill-lighted 
saloon. 


GLORIA 

Here  Gloria  found  herself  the  only  lady  at  the 
table,  with  a  dozen  or  more  men,  officers  and  passen 
gers  all  counted ;  but  as  the  motion  of  the  steamboat 
was  now  very  rough,  she  took  it  for  granted  that  all 
the  other  ladies  who  might  be  on  board  were  con 
fined  to  their  berths  by  sea-sickness. 

After  tea  the  young  couple  returned  to  the  deck, 
but  found  the  weather  too  blustering  for  the  girl ; 
so  they  went  again  to  the  saloon,  but  found  that  the 
table  had  been  cleared  of  the  tea-service  anc1  the 
men  had  gathered  about  it  in  parties  of  four  to  play 
cards,  smoke  and  drink ;  so  finally  they  went  to  the 
companion-way  leading  below,  and  there  David 
Lindsay  bid  Gloria  good-night,  for  there  was  no  ad 
mittance  for  him  in  the  Ladies'  Cabin. 

When  she  reached  this  sanctuary  she  found  that 
she  was  the  only  woman  on  board  the  steamer,  with 
the  exception  of  the  stewardess. 

This  latter  came  to  proffer  her  services  to  the 
young  lady.  She  was  a  wonderfully  tall,  black  and 
spare  specimen  of  the  negro  race.  A  striped  gown 
and  a  high  turban  added  to  her  unusual  altitude. 

"  'Ebenin,  Miss.  Well,  as  yer's  de  only  lady  here, 
yer  kin  hab  fus'  choice  of  dese  here  staterooms  on 
each  side  de  cabin,"  she  said. 

"Is  there  any  difference ?"  inquired  the  girl  with 
a  smile. 

"Some  is  double  and  some  is  single,  and  dem 
in  de  middle  is  straight,  and  next  to  de  stairs  is 
crooked." 

"Well,  you  shall  choose  for  me." 

"Den  I  'vise  you  to  take  a  double  one  in 
de  middle." 

"Thanks,"  said  Gloria.  She  did  not  then  go  into 
the  selected  stateroom,  but  she  sat  down  in  the 


GLORIA 

rocking-chair  and  put  her  feet  to  the  fire  in  the 
stove. 

"Reckon  yer's  gwine  back  to  school  in  de  city 
arter  the  Christmas  holidays?"  ventured  the 
stewardess. 

"No,"  replied  the  young  lady. 

"Den  yer's  gwine  long  your  pappy  to  buy  goods 
maybe?" 

"No." 

"To  visit  yer  'lations,  den?" 

"No." 

"Well,  what  on  de  face  ob  de  yeth  is  yer  gwine 
for?"  bluntly  inquired  the  stewardess. 

"On  business,"  good-humoredly  replied  the  girl. 

"Oh !"  said  the  woman. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the 
woman  began  to  murmur,  partly  to  herself: 

"Now,  I  wonder  what  business  can  call  a  young 
gal  to  town  at  this  unlawful  season  ob  de  wintry 
wedder  in  a  cold  steamboat?" 

As  the  young  lady  did  not  reply  to  this,  the 
woman  felt  driven  to  say,  more  decidedly : 

"You  looks  moughty  youngish  for  de  like  ob  sich, 
and  I'd  eben  fink  as  yer  ma  or  aunt  would  be  goin' 
wid  you ;  but  is  yer  gwine  to  buy  yer  weddin'  close?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Gloria. 

"Dere!  I  did  guess  it,  arter  all!"  triumphantly 
exclaimed  the  woman. 

Then,  to  stop  further  examination,  Gloria  de 
termined  to  turn  the  tables  by  questioning  the  ques 
tioner. 

"What  is  your  name,  auntie?"  she  hastened  to 
inquire. 

"Laweeny  Long,  dough  dey  do  mostly  call  me 
Long  Laweeny,  'cause,  yer  see,  honey,  I  is  ober  six 


GLORIA  227 

feet  tall,  which  can't  be  said  for  all  the  men,  let 
alone  wimmin.  Lay-wee-ny  Long,  honey!  One  ob 
de  La  Compte  colored  ladies,  honey,  and  been  run- 
nin'  stewardess  long  o'  Cappin  Bright  ebber  since 
my  mist'ess  died." 

"You  are  Lavinia,  one  of  the  La  Compte  colored 
people?"  questioned  Gloria,  in  surprise. 

"Hi,  what  I  tell  yer?  Yes,  honey,  one  ob  de  La 
Compte  colored  ladies,  I  is.  My  mist'ess  was  Miss 
Eleano  La  Compte,  what  married  a  speckled  for 
eigner,  which  he  was  a  great  man  in  his  own  coun 
try,  too,  I  b'liebe!  Howseber,  he's  dead,  and  so  is 
she,  and  lef '  one  only  darter  an'  heiress,  my  present 
young  mist'ess,  dough  I  hab  nebber  seed  her — Miss 
Delia  Werry." 

"Miss  de  la  Vera,  do  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  honey,  dat's  zactly  what  I  said.  Miss  Delia 
Werry.  Does  yer  know  her,  honey?" 

"Not  very  well,"  replied  Gloria,  with  a  smile. 
"At  least,  I  may  say  with  truth  that  I  don't  know 
much  good  of  her." 

"Now,  look  here,  young  gal!"  wrathfully  ex 
claimed  Long  Laweeny,  "don't  you  go  a  back-bitin' 
my  young  mist'ess  behind  her  back!  Now,  I  tell 
yer  good,  don't  you !  She's  my  young  mist'ess,  she 
is,  and  what  harm  does  you  know  of  her,  pray? 
Dere,  now,  what  harm  does  you  know  of  her?" 

"I  did  not  say  that  I  knew  any  harm  of  her ;  and, 
moreover,  if  it  will  give  you  any  satisfaction, 
auntie,  I  can  tell  you  that  I  love  Miss  de  la  Vera 
very  much,  very  much  more  than  any  one  else  in 
the  world,  I  am  afraid." 

"Den  I'm  glad  yer  does.  But  what  make  yer  say 
yer  don't  know  no  good  o'  she?"  inquired  the 
woman,  doubtfully. 


228  GLORIA 

"Oh,  I  was  jesting,  you  see,  only  jesting;  for  I 
have  as  much  respect  for  Miss  de  la  Vera  as  I  have 
for  myself." 

"Den  yer  nms'  know  her  right  well?" 

"No,  I'm  sure  I  don't,  not  half  as  well  as  I  would 
like  to  know  her.  But  now — you  say  you  belong 
to  the  estate.  How  comes  it  then  that  you  are  here 
as  stewardess  on  this  steamboat?" 

"Hi,  honey,  'cause  dere  ain't  been  no  use  for  me 
at  de  house  since  de  'stablishment  was  broked  up, 
arter  old  Marse  Cappin  La  Compte  died,  an'  de 
young  ladies  went  to  Washington  to  lib  long  o'  deir 
gardeen.  Dat  was  about  twenty  years  ago,  honey. 
And  all  we  young  women  servants  w^hat  belonged 
to  de  house  wras  hired  out  at  warious  places,  and 
only  two  or  free  old  grannies  left  to  look  arter  it, 
dough  all  de  men — field  hands  and  fishermen  and 
blacksmiths  and  carpenters,  yer  know,  honey — was 
left  on  de  'state,  'cause  deir  work  was  to  be  done, 
whedder  or  no,  fambily  or  no  fambily." 

"And  have  you  been  twenty  years  in  this  ser 
vice?" 

"No,  honey,  not  quite.  Only  'bout  seben,  I  reckon. 
I  was  hired  out  at  private  service  before  that." 

"Do  you  like  this  life?" 

"I  used  to,  honey,  but  I's  gettin'  tired  of  it.  An' 
I's  wishin'  for  the  time  to  come  when  my  young 
mist'ess,  Miss  Delia  Werry,  will  come  ob  age  or  get 
married,  so  as  to  come  and  lib  at  home,  an'  hab  her 
colored  people  about  her  like  oder  ladies,  I  do." 

Gloria  felt  extremely  interested  in  this  old  fam 
ily  servant  of  her  ancestors  whom  she  had  so  unex 
pectedly  met  in  the  cabin  of  the  steamboat,  and  so, 
without  revealing  her  own  identity  to  the  woman, 
she  encouraged  her  to  talk  of  La  Compte's  Landing 


GLORIA  229 

and  the  old  people  who  had  lived  there  in  times 
past.  And  as  "Long  Laweeny"  had  so  interested 
a  listener  she  became  very  diffuse  in  her  revelations. 

"They  do  say,  Miss,  that  the  first  founder  ob  de 
family  in  dese  parts  was  a  brave  ole  sea-king,  what 
his  inimies  and  back-biters  called  a  booknear  or 
pirate,  and  how  he  buried  whole  shiploads  of  gold 
and  silver  about  dese  here  shores  an'  islands,  which, 
if  dat  same  treasure  would  be  foun',  it  would  make 
de  people  what  owns  de  lan's  as  rich  as  Jews.  But 
I  don't  know  as  to  de  trufe  of  it." 

These  and  many  other  tales  and  legends  of  the 
old  family  did  Long  Laweeny  relate  to  her  attentive 
listener,  and  so  whiled  away  the  time  until  a  late 
hour,  when  Gloria  thanked  the  woman  for  the  en 
tertainment  and  retired  to  her  state-room. 

Though  the  mind  of  the  girl  was  deeply  disturbed 
by  the  novelty  of  her  present  position,  and  the  un 
certainty  of  her  future  fate,  she  did  not  lie  long 
awake,  but  rocked  by  the  motion  of  the  boat,  soon 
fell  sound  asleep  and  slept  profoundly  until  she 
was  awakened  by  the  movements  of  the  stewardess 
bustling  about  the  cabin  and  setting  it  in  order. 

On  first  opening  her  eyes  she  felt  surprise  and 
fear  on  finding  herself  in  the  berth  of  a  state-room 
on  a  rocking  steamboat;  but  instantly  she  remem 
bered  the  rash  step  that  had  placed  her  in  this  po 
sition,  and  her  soul  was  filled  with  dismay.  For  a 
moment  she  repented  her  reckless  flight,  and  con 
templated  remaining  on  the  steamer  under  the  pro 
tection  of  Long  Laweeny,  and  returning  with  it  on 
its  next  down  voyage  to  her  home.  Only  for  a  mo 
ment  did  she  think  of  such  an  alternative  to  going 
on  and  completing  her  other  purpose.  The  vision 


230  GLORIA 

of  her  uncle  and  his  importunities  frightened  her 
from  all  idea  of  going  back. 

"No!"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  cannot  trust  him. 
I  can  trust  David  Lindsay." 

In  the  spirit  of  this  trust  she  met  her  old  play 
mate  on  deck. 

He,  too,  had  had  his  deep  sleep  of  oblivion  and 
his  wakening  to  astonishment  and  perplexity.  But 
no  instant's  doubt  of  his  future  course  disturbed  his 
mind;  he  was  devoted  to  his  lady's  service,  and  de 
termined  to  do  her  will.  In  this  spirit  of  loyalty 
he  received  her  on  deck. 

The  wind  had  shifted  to  the  northwest  and 
cleared  the  sky  of  every  cloud ;  but  it  was  now  blow 
ing  dead  ahead,  and  so  the  boat  had  both  wind  and 
current  against  her,  and  her  upward  progress  was 
slow. 

Gloria  and  David  had  spent  the  day  on  deck, 
only  leaving  it  to  go  to  breakfast,  dinner  and  sup 
per  in  the  saloon. 

After  supper  they  separated,  as  before,  at  the 
head  of  the  companion-way  leading  down  into  the 
ladies'  cabin,  where  Gloria  spent  the  evening  in 
drawing  out  Long  Laweeny  to  talk  of  the  old  La 
Comptes  until  bed-time,  when  she  retired  to  her 
berth.  The  same  evening  David  spent  in  talking  to 
the  officer  of  the  deck  until  the  hour  came  which  re 
lieved  the  latter,  and  drew  the  former  to  the  saloon 
state-room,  which  he  shared  with  a  country  store 
keeper. 

It  was  sunset  when  she  entered  the  mouth  of  the 
Potomac  and  near  daylight  when  she  reached  Wash 
ington. 

When  Gloria  awoke  that  morning  the  first  thing 
that  struck  her  was  the  stillness  of  the  steamer, 


GLORIA  £31 

and  the  next  a  small  fleet  of  oyster-boats,  a  crowded 
wharf,  and  a  row  of  dingy  warehouses — all  seen 
through  the  window  of  her  state-room  as  soon  as  she 
slid  back  the  shutter. 

Then  she  dressed  quickly,  for  she  knew  the  boat 
was  at  Washington. 

But  again  she  was  seized  with  that  panic  of 
dread  which  had  temporarily  overcome  her  on  her 
awakening  on  the  previous  morning.  Again  she 
felt  the  impulse  to  fly  from  her  purpose  and  return 
to  her  home  while  there  was  yet  time.  But  the 
vision  of  her  uncle  in  his  madness  arose  before  her 
mind's  eye  and  checked  her  impulse. 

"No,  I  cannot  trust  him !  I  cannot  trust  myself ! 
but  I  can  trust  David  Lindsay!"  she  said,  as  she 
completed  her  toilet,  put  her  little  personal  effects 
into  her  traveling-bag,  and  went  up  on  deck. 

David  Lindsay  received  her  there  and  led  her  at 
once  to  the  saloon,  where  the  passengers  were  al 
ready  at  breakfast.  She,  being  the  only  lady,  re 
ceived  much  attention.  Her  seat  had  been  kept  for 
her,  and  dainties  were  pressed  upon  her;  but  so 
troubled  was  her  spirit  at  the  prospect  of  her  fate, 
that  she  could  only  swallow  a  little  coffee  and  make 
a  pretence  of  eating. 

When  the  counterfeit  meal  was  over,  she  arose 
from  the  table,  bowed  to  her  fellow-passengers,  and 
left  the  saloon,  attended  by  David  Lindsay. 

"We  may  go  on  shore  at  once.  I  had  already  en 
gaged  a  carriage  when  you  first  came  on  deck,"  said 
the  young  man,  as  he  led  her  across  the  gang-plank 
from  the  wharf,  where  the  hack  was  waiting. 

He  handed  her  in,  saw  her  comfortably  seated, 
and  followed  and  placed  himself  opposite  to  her. 

"Where  to,  if  you  please,  sir?"  inquired  the  hack- 


GLORIA 

man,  touching  his  hat,  as  he  held  the  door  open  in 
his  hand. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  replied  young  Lindsay;  and 
then  he  bent  forward  and  whispered  to  Gloria : 

"You  have  been  here  before,  and  know  the  place. 
What  hotel  do  you  prefer  ?" 

"Uncle  and  I  stopped  at  Brown's.  It  was  good 
enough,  I  suppose.  I  know  nothing  about  the  oth 
ers,  except  that  some  of  them  looked  better  on  the 
outside,"  replied  Gloria. 

"Brown's  Hotel,"  was  the  order  the  young  man 
gave  to  the  hack-driver,  who  remounted  to  his  box 
and  drove  off. 

David  Lindsay  had  never  been  in  any  city  in  his 
life,  and,  therefore,  he  was  much  more  pleased  with 
his  first  sight  of  Washington  than  strangers  usually 
are. 

"There  is  the  Capitol !"  he  exclaimed,  looking  out 
of  the  window  on  the  east  side.  "I  know  it  by  the 
picture,  which  is  very  faithful,"  he  added. 

"Yes,"  replied  Gloria,  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
said,  so  troubled  was  her  spirit. 

The  youth  looked  at  her  wistfully,  doubtfully, 
sorrowfully.  Then  he  dropped  his  eyes  and  voice 
to  the  deepest  expression  of  reverential  tenderness, 
and  said: 

"Miss  de  la  Vera,  do  you  repent  this  trust  you  are 
about  to  repose  in  me?  If  you  do,  oh,  speak !  I  am 
yours  to  do  you  service.  To  secure  your  happiness 
in  any  way  I  may  be  permitted  to  do  so!  To  at 
tend  you  all  through  life,  if  I  may  be  so  blessed — 
or,  if  not,  to  take  you  safely  wherever  you  would  go, 
and  leave  you  forever,  if  this  should  be  your  will," 
he  added,  as  his  voice  broke  down  with  emotion. 

She  answered  him  by  asking  another  question : 


GLORIA  233 

"David  Lindsay,  do  you  really  love  me — love  me 
as  you  said  you  did  that  morning  after  you  saved 
my  life,  when  you  did  not  know  I  heard  you?  Say, 
do  you  really  love  me  as  much  as  you  said  then?" 
she  breathed,  in  accents  scarcely  audible. 

"Do  I  love  you?  How  do  I  love  you?  How  can 
I  tell  you!  I  have  110  words  to  tell  you!  But  I 
know  that  I  could  live  for  you,  work  for  you,  suffer 
for  you,  yes,  Heaven  knows,  I  could  give  my  body 
to  be  burned  for  you,  if  that  could  insure  your  wel 
fare.  And  because  I  love  you  so  much  more  than  I 
can  tell  you,  I  repeat  now  that  I  am  yours  to  do 
your  will,  whatever  it  may  be ;  yours  to  attend  you 
through  life  if  I  am  to  be  so  happy,  or  yours  to 
take  you  to  some  place  of  safety  wherever  you 
would  go,  and  leave  you  there  forever,  at  your  com 
mand.  Dearest  lady,  you  have  only  to  command." 

She  was  weeping  heartily  now. 

He  gently  repeated  his  words : 

"You  have  only  to  command." 

"I  cannot — command — anybody!  Not  even  my 
self!"  she  sobbed. 

"What  shall  I  do  to  console  you?  Did  I  not  hear 
that  Madame  de  Crespigney,  the  colonel's  old 
mother,  was  in  Washington?  Shall  I  inquire  for 
her  and  take  you  there,  and  leave  you  under  her 
protection?"  he  asked,  turning  pale  at  the  thought 
of  what  her  answer  might  be,  though  no  other  sign, 
not  even  a  falter  in  his  voice,  betrayed  his  inward 
agitation. 

"No !"  exclaimed  Gloria.  "Take  me  there?  WThy, 
uncle  would  follow  me.  He  would  not  compel  me 
to  return  with  him,  but  he  would  persuade  me. 
Uncle  masters  my  will  when  he  pleads  with  me, 
and  if  I  return  to  his  power  he  may  some  time,  in 


234  GLORIA 

some  paroxysm  of  his  own  distress,  in  some  moment 
of  my  own  idiotic  pity,  induce  me  to  become  his 
wife,  and  then,  when  I  should  have  done  so,  I  should 
go  mad,  and  kill  him  or  myself.  No — no — no!  I 
must  put  an  eternal  barrier  between  uncle  and  my 
self.  David  Lindsay,  I  cannot  trust  my  uncle.  I 
cannot  trust  myself.  I  can  only  trust  you.  Say  no 
more  about  taking  me  anywhere  but  before  some 
minister  of  the  gospel.  And" —  ( "don't  make  me  do 
all  the  courting,"  she  was  about  to  add,  but  some 
subtile  intuition  warned  her  that  she  must  not  turn 
her  tragic  situation  into  jest,  even  with  her  trusted 
and  faithful  friend.) 

The  carriage,  meanwhile,  had  rolled  on  to  Penn 
sylvania  Avenue,  and  now  it  drew  up  before 
"Brown's." 

"Tell  him  to  drive  to  the  Ladies'  Entrance,"  whis 
pered  Gloria,  who  saw  that  she  would  have  to 
prompt  her  untraveled  escort. 

The  order  was  given  and  obeyed. 

David  handed  his  companion  down  to  the  pave 
ment,  and  paid  and  discharged  the  carriage. 

"Ask  to  be  shown  to  the  ladies'  parlor.  I  can  re 
main  there  until  you  go  and  find  some  minister,  and 
— yes,  it  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  get  a  license 
from  the  register's  office  at  the  City  Hall,"  she  con 
tinued,  in  a  whisper,  as  they  followed  an  obsequious 
waiter  to  an  upper  front  drawing-room  that  over 
looked  the  avenue. 

Gloria  threw  herself  into  a  chair.  There  hap 
pened  to  be  no  other  occupants  of  the  parlor,  though 
people,  either  the  inmates  of  the  house  or  visitors, 
might  enter  at  any  time. 

"Will  you  want  rooms,  sir?  The  office  is  below," 
suggested  the  waiter. 


GLORIA  235 

David  Lindsay  hesitated  and  looked  at  Gloria, 
who  murmured : 

"No,  do  not  take  rooms  yet.  You  would  have  to 
register  our  names,  and  that  would  be  awkward 
just  now.  Wait  until  afterwards." 

"We  do  not  want  rooms,  but  will  take  luncheon 
about  noon,"  said  the  young  man,  turning  to  the 
waiter,  who  then  left  them  and  went  about  his  busi 
ness. 

"How  will  you  occupy  yourself  while  I  am  gone?" 
inquired  David  Lindsay,  uneasily. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  away  half  an  hour.  I  shall 
stand  here  and  look  out  of  the  window,"  she  an 
swered,  taking  up  her  post. 

The  young  man  left  the  room. 

She  did  not  stand  there  long,  for  again  some 
nameless  horror  of  her  position,  and  dread  of  conse 
quences,  seized  upon  her  soul,  and  drove  her  to 
walking  rapidly  up  and  down  the  floor,  muttering 
to  herself : 

"Was  ever  a  wretched  human  being  driven  to 
such  extremity  as  I  am?  Is  there  any  way  out  of 
my  trouble  except  through  this  strange  marriage, 
and  am  I,  all  this  time,  so  insane,  as  I  suspect  I  am, 
that  I  cannot  see  it?  Even  David  Lindsay  pro 
posed  to  take  me  to  old  Madame  de  Crespigney,  and 
David  Lindsay  worships  me,  poor  boy,  that  I  know ! 
But  I  cannot  go  to  Madame  de  Crespigney !  I  can 
not  go  anywhere  where  Marcel  could  follow  me  and 
subdue  me  by  his  pleadings,  and  draw  me  to  my 
own  destruction  and  to  his !  I  cannot  trust  Marcel ! 
I  cannot  trust  myself !  I  can  only  trust  David  Lind 
say  !  And  he  is  no  clown,  if  he  is  a  poor  fisherman ! 
See  how  he  has  improved  himself.  He  talks  as  well 
as  uncle  does,  though  he  may  not  be  able  to  speak 


236  GLORIA 

on  so  many  different  subjects.  But,  oh,  Heaven, 
what  is  all  this  to  the  main  question?  That  I  should 
be  obliged  to  marry  any  one  to  save  myself  from 
uncle  and  from  my  own  heart!  I  don't  want  to 
marry !  I  don't !  I  don't !  I  don't !  I  never  did  wish 
to  marry !  I  never  meant  to,  either !  But — if  I  must, 
I  would  rather  trust  David  Lindsay  than  any  one 
I  know/' 

So,  muttering  to  herself,  she  paced  rapidly  up 
and  down  the  floor  until  the  entrance  of  other  ladies 
into  this  public  parlor  arrested  her  murmuring  com 
plaints,  though  not  her  steps,  for  she  continued  to 
walk  about  the  floor,  stopping  only  once  in  a  while 
to  look  out  of  the  windows. 

Several  of  the  occupants  of  the  room  noticed  the 
pale,  sorrowful,  and  restless  "child,"  for  such  they 
took  her  to  be,  and  formed  their  own  theories  of 
her  distress.  She  was  doubtless  on  her  way  to 
school,  after  her  Christmas  holidays,  and  was  suf 
fering  from  the  separation  from  home  and  friends. 
But  these  people  had  their  own  affairs  on  their 
minds,  and  so  could  bestow  but  little  attention  on 
the  troubles  of  the  supposed  homesick  school-girl, 
whom  they  hoped  to  see  presently  taken  care  of  by 
her  parent,  or  guardian,  or  some  other  responsible 
person  who  had  come  with  her  as  her  escort. 

For  more  than  an  hour  Gloria  walked  restlessly 
about,  or  gazed  from  the  front  windows,  while  peo 
ple  came  and  went  to  and  from  the  room,  whose  oc 
cupants  were  thus  always  changing. 

Then  at  length  David  Lindsay  returned.  She 
drew  him  to  a  distant  window,  out  of  the  hearing  of 
all  others,  that  he  might  give  an  account  of  him 
self. 

"I  was  longer  than  you  thought  I  should  be,  be- 


GLORIA 

cause  I  had  to  wait  some  time  in  the  register's  office 
before  I  could  get  our  license.  Afterwards  I  had 
to  inquire  out  the  residences  of  clergymen,  and  I 
called  at  several  before  I  could  find  any  one  disen 
gaged.  At  length  I  found  one  at  leisure — the  Rev. 
Mr.  O'Halloran,  at  St.  Matthew's  church.  He  will 
meet  us  there  immediately/7  whispered  David  Lind 
say. 

Gloria  began  to  tremble  visibly. 

"Are  you  ready?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  scarcely  above 
her  breath. 

He  gave  her  his  arm  and  led  her  forth,  down  the 
stairs  and  out  of  the  house,  to  the  carriage  that 
stood  waiting  for  them  before  the  door. 

In  another  moment  they  were  bowling  rapidly  up 
the  avenue  and  turning  into  a  cross  street.  A  ten 
minutes'  drive  brought  them  to  old  St.  Matthew's. 
He  helped  her  from  the  carriage  and  led  her  into 
the  church,  at  whose  lighted  altar  stood  the  priest 
in  his  vestments,  attended  by  one  or  two  sac 
ristans. 

In  the  front  pew  nearest  the  altar  were  three 
women  at  their  devotions. 

As  these  were  not  the  hours  of  public  worship, 
there  were  no  other  persons  in  the  church.  Gloria 
wondered  to  see  these  present,  but  was  too  much 
troubled  with  other  thoughts  to  speak  of  the  cir 
cumstance. 

David  Lindsay,  however,  voluntarily  enlightened 
her. 

"I  told  the  priest,  in  answer  to  his  questions,  that 
we  had  no  witnesses  to  bring  with  us.  He  then 
said  that  he  would  have  to  provide  them.  I  sup 
pose  he  has  done  so,  and  these  are  they,"  he  whis- 


238  GLORIA 

pered,  as  he  led  his  trembling  companion  up  the 
aisle  to  the  chancel. 

Two  hassocks  had  been  placed  on  the  floor  before 
the  altar  railings.  Upon  these  they  knelt. 

The  priest  opened  his  book  and  began  the  cere 
mony  forthwith. 

The  women  in  the  front  pew  left  their  seats  and 
drew  near  enough  to  hear  the  low  responses  of  the 
bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

The  ceremony  must  have  been  relieved  from  all 
unnecessary  forms,  for  it  was  very  short,  and  very 
soon  over. 

"I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife.  Those  whom 
God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

The  concluding  words  of  the  sacred  marriage- 
rites,  uttered  in  the  sweet  and  solemn  tones  of  the 
officiating  priest,  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  unhappy 
girl  like  the  knell  of  doom. 

The  benediction  was  then  pronounced,  and  the 
young  pair  arose  from  their  knees. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

BRIDE  AND  GROOM 

Wedded  fast  were  we. 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 

"SALUTE  your  wife,"  said  the  priest. 

The  young  bridegroom  turned  to  his  wife — his 
face  all  glorious  with  the  noblest  love  that  ever  in 
spired  the  soul  of  a  world-renowned  poet  or  warrior 
— and  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  his  heart  and 
bowed  his  head  to  offer  her  the  customary  kiss  that 


GLORIA  239 

was  to  seal  the  ceremony  just  performed  between 
them. 

She  did  not  yield  him  her  lips — she  did  not  even 
leave  him  her  hand,  but  shuddered  and  coldly  with 
drew  herself. 

David  Lindsay  turned  deadly  pale. 

The  priest  and  the  witnesses  looked  surprised. 
Such  an  exhibition  of  unkindness,  not  to  say  rude 
ness,  they  had  never  seen  in  all  their  experience. 

"Come  into  the  vestry,  if  you  please,"  then  said 
the  priest. 

David  Lindsay,  struck  to  the  heart  by  his  bride's 
repulsion,  recovered  himself  by  an  effort,  drew  her 
arm  within  his  own  and  followed  the  clergyman. 

The  two  sacristans  and  the  three  witnesses 
brought  up  the  rear. 

The  parish  register  lay  open  on  the  table. 

The  newly  married  pair  were  now  required  to 
sign  their  names. 

David  Lindsay  steadied  himself  and  wrote  his  in 
clear  characters. 

Gloria's  hand  shook  so  in  her  attempt  to  write 
that  the  scratches  and  blotches  she  made  might 
have  meant  anything  or  nothing. 

The  witnesses  affixed  their  signatures,  and  the 
deed  was  done. 

Then  David  Lindsay  courteously  thanked  the 
priest  and  shook  hands  with  him,  leaving  in  his 
palm  a  very  liberal  fee. 

Finally,  he  drew  the  arm  of  his  bride  under  his 
own  to  lead  her  forth. 

As  he  led  her  down  the  aisle,  on  their  way  out  of 
the  church,  some  whispered  words  among  the  three 
women  who  had  witnessed  their  marriage,  and  who 
now  followed  close  behind  them,  fell  on  his  ears. 


240  GLORIA 

"A  runaway  match,  as  sure  as  you  are  born,  and 
the  girl  repents  already.  She  looks  like  death,  she 
does/'  said  one  woman. 

"She's  scared  nearly  out  of  her  wits  for  fear  her 
father  or  somebody  will  be  after  her,"  said  another. 

"I  declare  I  don't  know  how  any  conscientious 
minister  of  the  gospel  ever  can  find  it  in  his  mind 
to  marry  a  runaway  couple — and  such  children  as 
these  are,  too.  I  must  say,  I  am  astonished  at  Mr. 
O'Halloran !"  added  the  third  woman. 

"Well,  for  my  part,"  recommenced  the  first,  "if 
one  of  my  daughters  should  be  so  lost  to  all  sense 
of  propriety  as  to  go  off  with  any  young  man,  I 
should  be  exceedingly  thankful  to  the  first  minister, 
or  even  magistrate,  who  should  tie  them  lawfully 
together." 

"To  be  sure,  there  is  something  in  that,  which  I 
never  thought  of  before,"  answered  the  caviler. 

David  Lindsay  drew  his  trembling  companion  on 
faster,  in  order  to  escape  hearing  any  more  of  these 
unpleasant  comments. 

He  took  her  out  and  put  her  in  the  carriage, 
stepped  in,  and  seated  himself  by  her  side  and  or 
dered  the  hack  to  drive  back  to  the  hotel. 

"Gloria,  dear  Gloria,  my  own  dearest  lady,"  he 
began,  as  he  took  one  of  her  frozen  hands. 

"DON'T  speak  to  me!  DON'T  touch  me!"  she  ex 
claimed,  snatching  her  hand  from  his  gentle  hold, 
pulling  her  veil  over  her  face,  and  tucking  her  head 
down  in  a  corner  of  the  cushions. 

"Ah !  what  have  I  done  to  offend  you,  lady?"  he 
pleaded. 

"BE  SILENT,  I  say !  And  keep  your  hands  to  your 
self,  unless  you  wish  to  kill  me!  But  you  may  do 


GLORIA 

that  one  thing !  You  may  kill  me,  if  you  like !  I 
wish  you  would !" 

"Great  Heaven !  Gloria,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"I  am  crazy !  crazy !  I  told  you  I  was  crazy !  And 
if  you  do  not  leave  me  alone  I  shall  go  raving  mad !" 
she  wildly  exclaimed,  and  then  pushed  her  head 
down  in  the  cushions  again,  as  if  she  would  shut  out 
all  sight  of  earth  and  heaven. 

David  Lindsay  sank  back  in  his  seat  and  turned 
deadly  pale  as  he  asked  himself  the  question : 

What  had  he  done  to  offend  and  alienate  her? 
To  fill  her  mind  with  such  abhorrence  of  himself? 
He  had  obeyed  her  in  everything.  He  had  conse 
crated  his  life  to  her  happiness.  True,  she  was  a 
rich  heiress,  and  he  was  but  a  poor  boy ;  yet?  if  their 
cases  had  been  reversed,  and  he  had  been  the 
wealthy  man  and  she  the  poor  girl,  he  felt  that  he 
would  equally  have  consecrated  his  life  to  her.  He 
loved  her  with  his  whole  being,  and  since  she  had 
condescended  to  him,  he  had  hoped  finally  to  be 
come  more  worthy  of  her,  and  to  win  her  love;  for 
deep  down  in  his  soul  he  felt  the  prophecy  that  he 
should  become  worthy  of  her — 

"Worthy  as  a  king." 

But  ever  since,  at  the  priest's  command,  he  had 
offered  her  the  bridegroom's  kiss,  she  had  shrunk 
from  him  in  loathing. 

Was  it  possible  after  all,  that  the  mind  of  hife  be 
loved  was  unbalanced?  That  her  reason  was  de 
ranged,  and  had  been  so  at  the  time  she  had  made 
her  strange  marriage  proposal  to  him?  Had  he 
himself  been  culpably  hasty,  even  criminally  reck- 


GLORIA 

less,  in  his  acceptance  of  her  offered  hand?  Had 
he  unconsciously  taken  advantage  of  a  poor  child's 
lunacy  to  make  her  his  wife? 

Indeed,  the  present  aspect  of  affairs  looked  as  if 
this  must  be  the  case.  And  if  so,  what  earthly 
amends  could  he  make  her?  How  atone  for  the  deep 
wrong  he  had  done  her? 

These  were  terrible  questions,  that  he  could  in  no 
way  answer. 

While  they  still  tortured  his  soul,  the  carriage 
drew  up  before  the  hotel,  and  the  coachman  left  his 
seat  on  the  box  and  came  down  and  opened  the  door. 

Gloria's  face  was  still  tucked  down  out  of  sight 
in  the  corner  of  the  carriage. 

"Come,  lady,  we  have  arrived,"  the  young  bride 
groom  whispered,  in  a  gentle  and  deprecating  tone. 

She  pulled  her  veil  down  closer  over  her  face, 
doubling  it  so  that  not  a  feature  could  be  seen,  and 
then  allowed  him  to  take  her  hand  and  assist  her 
from  the  carriage. 

David  Lindsay,  in  his  distress,  forgot  to  pay  the 
hackman  and  discharge  the  hack.  But  that  func 
tionary  jogged  the  memory  of  his  employer  and  re 
ceived  his  own  dues. 

Then  young  Lindsay  led  his  companion  into  the 
house  and  up  to  the  ladies'  parlor,  when  she  left 
his  arm  and  hurried  away  by  herself  to  a  corner, 
where  she  sat  down  in  a  large  chair  and  hid  her 
head  in  its  back  cushions. 

Meanwhile  David  Lindsay  went  down  stairs  and 
registered  their  names  and  engaged  rooms. 

When  this  was  done  he  came  back  to  the  parlor, 
accompanied  by  a  waiter  with  a  couple  of  keys  in 
his  hand. 

Leaving  this  man  at  the  cLoorz  laden  with  the  two 


GLORIA 

traveling-bags  which  had  been  pointed  out,  David 
Lindsay  approached  Gloria  and  whispered : 

"A  waiter  is  here  to  take  up  your  bag  and  show 
you  to  your  room.  Will  you  go  now,  and  will  you 
have  some  tea,  or  whatever  you  prefer,  sent  up  to 
you?" 

She  did  not  answer  by  one  word,  but,  shuddering, 
arose,  peeped  through  a  fold  of  her  veil,  and,  seeing 
the  waiter  at  the  door,  walked  towards  him. 

The  man  nodded,  and  led  the  way  to  a  small  suite 
of  rooms  on  the  same  floor,  consisting  of  a  little 
parlor,  chamber  and  bath-room. 

He  opened  these  and  put  down  the  bags,  and  then 
struck  a  match  and  set  fire  to  the  kindlings  already 
piled  in  the  grates  ready  for  ignition. 

Having  performed  these  duties  he  turned  to  the 
lady  and  inquired : 

"Any  more  orders,  madam?" 

"Madam!"  echoed  the  girl,  with  bitter  scorn, 
though  in  so  low  a  tone  that  the  word  was  nearly 
inaudible.  "No,  I  want  nothing;  but,  yes,  you  may 
bring  me  a  cup  of  tea.  My  throat  is  as  parched  as  a 
desert/7 

The  waiter  nodded  and  went  out. 

"Now,  what  have  I  done!"  exclaimed  Gloria,  as 
she  tore  off  her  gloves,  her  hat,  and  her  sack,  and 
threw  them  angrily  on  the  bed.  "Now,  what  have 
I  done !  Oh,  Marcel !  I  will  never,  never,  no,  NEVER 
forgive  you  for  driving  me  to  this  pass !  Oh !  how 
I  hate  you !  How  I  hate  you  for  this,  Marcel !  And 
I  hate  David  Lindsay!  And  I  hate  myself  worse 
than  all !  My  odious  self !  I  hate  everybody !  And 
I  wish  everybody  was  dead !  I  do !"  she  cried,  fling 
ing  herself  down  on  the  floor,  and  rolling  and  cry 
ing  like  a  passionate  child. 


GLORIA 

It  is  of  no  use  to  repeat  all  her  ravings. 

David  Lindsay  was  more  than  half  right  in  his 
surmises,  and  Gloria  was  really  more  than  half  in 
sane. 

She  was  still  rolling  and  crying  on  the  carpet, 
when  the  shuffling  steps  of  the  waiter  approaching 
the  door,  caused  her  to  start  up  in  time  to  answer 
his  knock. 

She  placed  herself  behind  the  door,  opened  it, 
put  out  her  hand  and  took  the  little  tea-tray,  with 
out  showing  her  own  tear-stained  face. 

She  drank  the  tea  with  eager  thirst,  and  then  sat 
down  the  empty  cup  and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa. 

"The  cup  that  cheers,"  and  so  forth,  seemed  to 
do  her  good,  and  perhaps  her  fit  of  hysterical  weep 
ing  had  temporarily  exhausted  itself,  for  she  wept 
and  raved  no  more,  but  lay,  with  her  hands  clasped 
over  her  face,  in  perfect  stillness. 

An  hour  later  there  was  a  knock  at  her  door. 
She  started  up  and  opened  it,  and  David  Lindsay 
entered  the  room. 

She  recoiled  to  the  farthest  corner,  and  sat  down 
and  hid  her  head  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"Do  not  shrink  from  me.  Indeed  I  will  not  in 
trude  my  presence  on  you  more  than  is  absolutely 
necessary,"  he  began,  in  low  and  deprecating  tones. 

But  she  shuddered  and  shrank  into  herself,  more 
fearfully  than  ever. 

He  sat  down  at  some  little  distance  from  her, 
sighed  heavily,  because  he  could  not  help  doing  so, 
drew  out  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  wiped 
his  forehead,  which  was  beaded  with  a  cold  moist 
ure,  and  paler  now  than  it  had  ever  been  in  his  life 
before. 

"I  only  wished  to  discover,  if  indeed  I  can  do  so, 


GLORIA  245 

through  you,  whether  you  really  knew  what  you 
were  about  when  you  came  to  me  on  the  beach,  when 
you  accompanied  me  to  the  city  here,  and  when  you 
gave  me  your  hand  in  the  church?" 

These  words  acted  upon  the  motionless  form  with 
more  power  than  a  galvanic  battery  on  a  corpse. 

She  sprang  from  her  seat  to  the  middle  of  the 
floor  and,  confronting  him  with  a  wild  and  agonized 
face,  she  exclaimed : 

"No,  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing!  I  was 
mad — mad — mad !  arid  you  ought  to  have  known 
that  I  was  mad  to  have  done  such  an  unheard-of 
thing.  Oh,  David  Lindsay,  if  you  ever  loved  me, 
have  pity  on  me  now  and  leave  me !  If  you  have  a 
spark  of  mercy  in  your  soul,  grant  my  prayer,  and 
leave  me.  If  you  have  the  least  instinct  of  honor, 
do  not  insist  on  keeping  the  position  that  my  act 
has  given  you.  If  you  are  a  man  and  not  a  mon 
ster,  and  not  a  maniac,  leave  me  and  never  let  me 
see  your  face  again." 

He  gazed  on  her  in  anguish  and  amazement. 
Then  he  arose  from  his  chair,  crossed  over  to  the 
fireplace,  and  stood  upon  the  corner  of  the  hearth, 
with  his  elbow  leaning  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  his 
hand  supporting  his  forehead.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  floor,  his  face  was  white  as  death,  and 
looked  older  by  a  dozen  years  than  it  should  be. 
Yet  he  was  very  firm  and  patient.  Boy  as  he  was 
—but  a  few  months  past  his  twenty-first  birthday — 
he  could  never  descend  to  the  weakness  of  pleading 
his  suit,  and  playing  upon  the  sympathies  of  his 
beloved,  as  older  and  wiser  men  have  done,  and  still 
do.  No.  If  her  love  could  not  approve  him,  her 
pity  should  not  accept  him.  He  adored  her  with 
his  whole  soul.  He  had  married  her,  yet  lie  would 


246  GLORIA 

not  persecute  her  with  an  unwelcome  suit.  But 
neither  must  he  leave  her  now,  in  her  childishness 
and  helplessness.  He  must  see  her  in  some  place 
of  safety,  and  under  some  proper  protection. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  rapidly 
through  his  mind,  as  he  stood  on  the  corner  of  the 
hearth,  with  his  elbows  resting  on  the  mantel-piece, 
his  head  leaning  on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  floor. 

"David  Lindsay,  will  you  act  the  part  of  an  hon 
orable  man,  and  leave  me  at  once  and  forever,  or 
will  you  stay  here  and  drive  me  furious?"  she  de 
manded  again,  in  a  voice  of  anguish. 

"Patience  for  one  moment,  lady.  I  will  leave 
you — as  far  as  the  next  room — and  never  cross  this 
threshold  again.  This  chamber  shall  be  your  sanc 
tuary.  I  will  occupy  the  parlor.  But  I  cannot 
leave  you  alone  and  unprotected  in  a  strange  city, 
dear.  I  must  be  on  hand  to  take  care  of  you,  if 
needful.  You  are  frightened  now,  Gloria.  There 
is  no  need  to  be.  I  will  not  intrude.  But  we  must 
have  time  to  think  what  we  shall  next  do." 

He  spoke  very  gently. 

And  now  she  was  weeping  aloud. 

He  left  the  room  at  once. 

"Oh !  what  a  selfish  and  cruel  wretch  I  am !  What 
a  change  has  come  over  me!  I  have  turned  into  a 
demon !  I  must  be  a  demon  to  hate  those  who  love 
me!  To  hate  them  for  loving  me!  Oh,  I  wish  I 
were  dead !  I  wish  I  had  never  lived !"  she  sobbed, 
throwing  herself  down  upon  the  sofa  in  an  agony 
of  self-reproach  and  self-loathing. 

David  Lindsay  walked  up  and  down  in  the  ad 
joining  room,  his  steps  noiseless  on  the  soft  carpet. 
He  was  sorely  perplexed  in  mind  and  distressed  at 


GLORIA  247 

• 
heart,  only  certain  of  two  obligations  resting  upon 

him — not  to  intrude  on  her  privacy,  yet  not  to  de 
sert  her  in  her  weakness  and  distraction.  She  wras 
but  a  child,  he  felt,  a  child  who  had  grown  up  under 
very  peculiar  circumstances,  so  that  she  must  not 
be  judged  as  ordinary  children  or  young  girls.  And 
what  a  heavenly  child  she  had  been!  How  full  of 
love,  how  free  from  selfishness!  Now  she  seemed 
indeed  to  have  been  driven  into  a  state  akin  to  in 
sanity.  Had  he,  her  old  playmate,  who  loved  her 
better  than  his  own  life,  had  any  hand  in  this?  He 
could  not  think  so.  He,  with  all  his  honesty  of  in 
quiry,  could  not  see  any  other  way  than  that  they 
had  taken  to  save  her  from  an  odious  marriage, 
wThich  her  religious  faith  would  have  condemned 
even  if  her  own  heart  had  not  revolted  against  it — 
a  marriage  into  which  she  could  not  have  been  com 
pelled,  of  course,  but  into  which  she  might  have 
been,  through  her  pity,  persuaded.  Now  she  was 
safe,  at  least  from  that  danger. 

Meanwhile,  what  was  now  his  duty  to  her? 

Not  to  intrude  on  her,  and  not  to  abandon  her, 
certainly. 

But  afterwards? 

He  now  remembered  all  that  she  had  told  him, 
while  they  sat  together  on  the  steamboat  deck,  con 
cerning  her  father's  will,  and  how,  on  her  attaining 
the  age  of  eighteen,  or  on  her  marriage,  she  was  to 
enter  upon  the  possession  of  her  estate,  and  the  au 
thority  of  her  guardian  was  to  cease ;  that  this  will 
had  been  made  in  Washington  city,  and  recorded 
in  the  office  of  the  Eegister  of  Wills. 

He  determined  to  go  thither  and  examine  the 
document  for  himself. 

He  rapped  gently  at  Gloria's  door. 


248  GLORIA 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  inquired,  in  smothered 
tones. 

"I  am  going  out  for  an  hour.  Shall  I  send  any 
one  to  you?7' 

uNo,  thanks ;  I  want  nothing." 

He  turned  away  and  went  down  stairs  and  out 
of  the  house,  and  bent  his  steps  to  the  City  Hall. 

On  inquiring  of  the  proper  officers  he  obtained  a 
view  of  the  folio  containing  the  record  of  the  testa 
ment  he  sought.  Having  read  it  over,  he  thought  he 
saw  his  way  clearly  enough  towards  placing  his 
young  bride  in  her  own  house,  surrounded  by  her 
own  servants,  and  safe  from  any  annoyance  from 
her  late  guardian.  But  he  concluded  that  it  would 
be  better  to  take  a  lawyer's  opinion. 

He  had  noticed,  as  he  came  along  that  morning, 
almost  every  front  basement  on  the  north  side  of 
Louisiana  Avenue,  opposite  the  City  Hall,  to  be  the 
office  of  some  attorney-at-law. 

He  therefore  knew  where  to  go  to  look  for  one. 

He  left  the  building  and  crossed  the  street,  but 
went  into  at  least  a  dozen  places  without  finding 
any  one  disengaged.  At  length,  however,  he  paused 
before  the  last  and  plainest  on  the  block,  which 
bore  the  sign :  "Patrick  McLoughlin,  Attorney  and 
Counsellor  at  Law.7' 

He  entered  a  shabby  little  room,  where  a  very 
young  and  briefless  lawyer  sat  at  a  dusty  desk,  and 
seemed  to  have  no  heavier  labor  on  hand  than  the 
perusal  of  the  morning  paper. 

To  this  young  fellow  David  Lindsay  introduced 
himself,  and  stated  his  case,  omitting  only  two  cir 
cumstances — that  the  marriage  proposal  had  come 
from  the  lady  herself,  and  that  immediately  after 
the  ceremony  she  had  repulsed  him.  The  knowledge 


GLORIA  249 

of  these  unusual  facts  was,  however,  not  at  all 
essential  to  the  right  understanding  of  the  situa 
tion. 

The  young  Irishman,  with  all  the  ardor  and 
frankness  of  his  race,  heartily  congratulated  his 
client  on  having  so  successfully  run  away  with  an 
heiress;  for  that  was  the  light  in  which  he  viewed 
the  affair.  He  made  no  pretense  of  being  busy,  but 
announced  himself  ready  to  attend  Mr.  Lindsay  at 
once.  They  crossed  over  together  to  the  City  Hall, 
and  went  to  the  Registrar's  office,  where  McLough- 
liri  read  the  recorded  will,  while  David  Lindsay 
stood  by.  Then  he  closed  the  folio  with  a  rap, 
clapped  his  client  on  the  shoulder,  and  exclaimed : 

"That's  all  right!  Take  the  lady  home  to  the 
finest  house  she  possesses,  my  dear  fellow,  and  tell 
the  old  guardian,  if  he  comes  bothering  around,  to 
go  to  the  divil ;  his  consent  was  not  necessary !" 

Not  very  elegant  language  to  couch  a  lawyer's 
opinion  in;  but  McLoughlin  has  improved  since 
then,  and  now  you  would  hardly  find  a  more  digni 
fied  man  at  the  Washington  bar  than  he  is. 

The  young  lawyer  thought  he  had  found  a  "big 
bonanza"  in  this  fortunate  young  fellow,  who  had 
married  an  heiress,  and  so  he  charged  him  fifty 
dollars  for  his  advice.  ( He  wrould  charge  five  hun 
dred  for  the  same  service  now,  bless  you.) 

David  Lindsay  paid  the  fee  without  demur;  but 
he  was  appalled,  it  reduced  his  funds  so  alarmingly 
low.  He  had  left  home  with  only  two  hundred  dol 
lars — the  accumulated  savings  of  ten  or  twelve 
years.  Traveling  expenses,  and  clergymen's  and 
lawyer's  fees  had  reduced  it  to  less  than  a  hundred 
already,  and  this  circumstance  warned  him  that  he 
must  lose  no  time  in  stopping  expenses  at  the  hotel, 


250  GLORIA 

but  must  take  Gloria  to  her  home,  while  yet  he  had 
the  means  of  doing  so — for  he  was  resolved  that  he 
would  not  draw  upon  her  resources. 

He  took  leave  of  young  McLoughlin  and  walked 
rapidly  towards  their  hotel. 

He  went  up  stairs  to  their  private  parlor  and 
rapped  at  her  door. 

"Well?"  she  said,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"Will  you  come  out,  dear,  and  let  me  speak  to 
you?" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  in  a  low  tone;  and  pres 
ently  she  appeared,  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and 
sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair.  She  did  not  wait 
for  him  to  speak,  but,  with  a  dry  sob,  commenced : 

"David  Lindsay,  I  am  a  lost  spirit — an  evil  spirit. 
I  cannot  help  that.  I  have  treated  you  unpardon- 
ably.  I  cannot  help  that,  either — I- " 

"Do  not  reproach  yourself,  dear.  There  is  no 
thought  in  my  heart  that  reproaches  you,"  he  an 
swered,  gently,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  win 
dow  and  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  so  that  she  should 
not  see  the  trouble  that  he  could  not  entirely  banish 
from  his  face. 

"Ah,  but  I  do  and  must.  I  feel  how  wickedly, 
yes,  how  basely  I  have  acted  towards  you,  David 
Lindsay,  and  am  still  acting,  and  must  still  act; 
but  I  cannot  help  it !  I  cannot  help  anything.  WTe 
must  part,  David  Lindsay." 

"I  know  it,  dear,"  he  answered,  in  as  steady  tones 
as  he  could  command,  for  he  knew  her  sympathetic 
nature,  and  knew  how  much  she  would  suffer  from 
compassion  if  she  should  see  him  suffer.  "I  know 
we  must  part.  It  would  be  scarcely  natural,  scarce 
ly  possible,  that  you  should  love  me,  to  live  with 
me.  The  ceremony  of  this  morning  must  go  for 


GLORIA  251 

nothing,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  but  just  this — 
to  be  a  shield  and  defence  about  you,  to  protect 
you  from  your  guardian's  suit  and  from  your  own 
heart's  weakness — that  is  all.  When  you  are  older 
and  stronger,  and  able  to  do  without  it,  the  empty 
ceremony  of  this  morning  can  be  set  aside,  an 
nulled — for,  Gloria,  the  marriage  rites,  so  sacred 
between  souls  that  are  already  one,  wTas  but  an  idle 
and  empty  ceremony  between  you  and  me,  and  is 
good  for  nothing  but  a  temporary  defence  to  your 
helplessness.  It  has  given  me  a  husband's  right  to 
protect  you  before  the  world,  Gloria,  but  I  shall 
use  it  only  as  a  brother.  As  a  brother,  I  will  escort 
you  to  your  own  home,  Gloria,  and  establish  you 
there." 

"And  then?"  she  inquired,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
above  her  breath. 

"Then,  dear,  I  will  bid  you  good-bye,  when  I  see 
vou  safe." 


CHAPTER    XIX 

LOVE  WITHOUT  SELF-LOVE 

Stand  up!     Look  below! 
It  is  my  life  at  thy  feet  I  throw, 
To  step  with  into  light  and  joy! 
Not  a  power  of  life  but  I'll  employ — 

BROWNING. 

"GRYPHYNSHOLD  !  Take  me  to  Gryphynshold ! 
that  is  the  most  remote  of  all  the  manors  left  me 
by  my  father.  Take  me  there,  for  I  wish  to  go  as 
far  as  possible  from  all  the  people  I  ever  knew  be- 


252  GLORIA 

fore !"  said  Gloria,  in  reply  to  David  Lindsay's  sug 
gestion  that  he  should  convey  her  to  some  one  of 
her  houses  as  to  a  place  of  refuge. 

They  were  still  sitting  together,  where  we  left 
them,  in  the  private  parlor  of  the  hotel,  on  the  after 
noon  of  the  day  of  their  marriage. 

They  were  now  conversing  in  a  quiet  and  friendly 
manner  on  the  subject  of  their  approaching  de 
parture,  for  they  had  resolved  to  leave  Washington 
the  same  evening. 

Gloria  was  much  more  composed  now  than  she 
had  ever  been  since  the  hour  of  her  marriage;  for 
David  Lindsay  had  assured  her  that  he  should  never 
presume  on  the  position  she  had  given  him,  even  to 
enter  her  presence  uninvited. 

She  had,  from  their  childhood  up,  always  loved 
and  trusted  him,  and  now  that  he  had  given  her 
this  promise,  she  implicitly  believed  him,  and  dis 
missed  all  her  disquieting  doubts. 

David  Lindsay,  meanwhile,  magnanimously  re 
pressed  all  exhibition  of  the  bitter  mortification  and 
sorrow  he  experienced.  He  knew  his  little  play 
mate  too  well  to  blame  her.  He  knew  her  better 
than  any  one  else  in  the  world — better  than  she 
knew  herself.  The  poor  little  hunted  and  helpless 
fawn  had  flown  to  him  for  refuge,  and  he  would 
succor  her  in  the  way  she  pleased,  not  in  the  way 
he  had  wished. 

She  had  chosen  her  place  of  refuge,  and  he  would 
take  her  there. 

"Gryphynshold,"  he  slowly  repeated,  when  she 
had  named  the  selected  point  of  destination.  "What 
a  savage  and  gloomy  name,  dear!  Where  is  that?" 

"The  name  is  not  more  gloomy  and  savage  than 


GLORIA  253 

the  place,  I  fear.  It  is  situated  in  the  extreme  south 
western  part  of  Virginia,  on  or  near  the  point  of 
juncture  with  North  Carolina  and  Tennessee.  It  is 
said  to  be  the  most  ancient  building  in  all  that  re 
gion  of  country;  it  was  erected  in  a  gorge  of  the 
Iron  Mountains  by  an  eccentric  and  misanthropical 
Welshman  named  Dyvyd-ap-Gryphyn,  said  by  some 
annalists  to  have  been  an  outlaw  in  his  own  coun 
try  and  a  refugee  in  this.  However  that  might  have 
been,  or  whether  he  had  any  legal  right  to  the  land 
or  not,  there,  in  the  most  terrific  yawning  abyss  of 
the  mountain  range,  he  built  a  rude  stronghold  of 
heavy  rock  and  ponderous  timber,  and  called  it 
Gryphynshold ;  and  there  he  lived,  supporting  him 
self  by  hunting  and  fishing,  like  any  other  savage 
denizen  of  the  wilderness,  and  there  at  length  he 
married  an  Indian  girl  of  the  Cherokee  tribe.  From 
that  marriage  sprang  the  race  of  Gryphyns — a 
proud,  surly,  ferocious  race  of  men,  the  bane  of  each 
other,  and  the  terror  of  their  neighborhood." 

"It  is  to  be  devoutly  hoped  that  they  were  not  a 
very  numerous  tribe,"  said  David  Lindsay. 

"No.  I  have  heard  Aunt  Agrippina  say  that  there 
was  never  more  than  one  child  born  of  any  mar 
riage,  and  that  was  always  a  son.  Strange,  wasn't 
it,  from  generation  to  generation,  only  one  son  to 
succeed  his  father?" 

"Very  strange;  yet  it  precluded  all  possibility  of 
law-suits  among  the  heirs.  But  how  came  this  ill- 
omened  property  into  your  father's  hands,  my  dear 
little  lady?"  inquired  David  Lindsay,  in  a  playful 
tone,  assumed  to  hide  the  heartache  that  was  tor 
turing  him. 

"Oh,  it  was  a  dreadful,  dreadful  story.  I  do  not 
know  the  details  of  it.  But  Mr.  Dyvjd  Gryphyn, 


GLORIA 

the  last  descendant  of  the  Welsh  outlaw  who 
founded  the  family,  seems  to  have  been  a  demon  in 
human  form,  more  haughty,  surly,  cruel  and  furious 
than  any  of  his  evil  predecessors,  yet  withal  as 
demoniacally  beautiful  and  fascinating  as  Lucifer, 
Son  of  the  Morning.  After  the  death  of  his  father, 
who  was  killed  in  a  tavern  broil,  and  of  his  mother, 
who  dropped  dead  of  heart  disease  on  hearing  the 
news — for  all  these  handsome  and  ferocious  demons 
seemed  to  have  been  fondly  loved  by  their  unfortu 
nate  wives — Dyvyd  Gryphyn  left  Gryphynshold  on 
a  tour  of  Europe.  After  an  absence  of  three  years 
he  returned  home,  bringing  with  him  a  young 
woman,  said  to  have  been  fairer  than  the  fairest 
lily,  more  blooming  than  the  rosiest  rose.  He  loved 
her  with  the  surly,  jealous,  cruel  love  of  his  nature 
and  the  nature  of  his  fathers,  which  seems  to  be 
not  so  much  love  as  a  devouring  and  consuming- 
fire,  the  curse  and  ruin  of  all  upon  whom  it  chanced 
to  fall.  And  she  loved  him  with  that  fatality  of  de 
votion  which  was  the  doom  of  all  the  women  ever 
chosen  by  the  ill  men  of  the  race.  She  was  content 
to  bury  herself  with  him  in  that  savage  solitude, 
remote  from  all  human  kind ;  yet  he  did  not  seclude 
himself,  but  rode  forth  to  distant  towns  and  vil 
lages,  and  remained  away  for  days  and  weeks  to 
gether.  Sometimes  he  would  bring  a  party  of  men 
home  with  him,  and  they  would  hunt  or  fish  all  day, 
and  carouse  all  night.  But  he  never  let  any  of  them 
see  his  hidden  beauty,  who  lived  as  isolated  in  her 
dreary  prison  as  any  enchanted  princess  in  a  fairy 
castle,  until  one  night,  in  the  midst  of  a  midnight 
orgie,  when  his  reckless  companions  were  all  mad 
with  drink,  and  he  himself  was  maddest  of  all,  he 
sent  and  summoned  her  to  the  feast.  The  poor 


GLORIA  255 

thing  wasTiot  a  Queen  Vashti,  so  she  obeyed  the 
drunken  mandate,  and  came  down.  I  do  not  know 
what  happened  there — what  she  was  forced  to  see 
and  bear  and  hear — but  that  she  was  grieved, 
shocked  and  terrified  beyond  all  endurance  is  cer 
tain,  for  as  soon  as  she  could  break  away  and  es 
cape  from  the  fiendish  crew,  she  fled  to  the  top  of 
the  house  and  hid  herself,  in  a  state  of  delirious 
terror." 

Gloria  paused  and  shuddered. 

"What  became  of  the  poor  young  woman?"  in 
quired  David  Lindsay. 

"I  do  not  know.  No  one  knows  what  finally  be 
came  of  her.  The  party  of  revellers  broke  up  the 
next  morning  and  Dyvyd  Gryphyn  rode  with  them 
to  the  next  town  and  remained  absent  for  a  day, 
during  which  the  poor  little  soul  at  home  grew 
quieter." 

Again  Gloria  paused,  and  David  Lindsay  in 
quired  : 

"And  was  there  a  reconciliation  between  this  ill- 
sorted  pair?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  never  even  heard  whether  he 
saw  her  again  on  the  morning  after  the  orgie,  or 
whether  he  took  leave  of  her  before  setting  out  on 
his  journey  with  the  revellers.  She  grew  very  quiet 
in  his  absence." 

Once  more  Gloria  sank  into  silence.  Once  more 
the  young  man  prompted  her  to  continue,  saying : 

"Well,  and  when  this  demon  of  Gryphynshold 
came  back?" 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  what  next  happened  is  so 
horrible — so  horrible  that  I  shrink  from  speaking 
of  it,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder. 

"Then  do  not,  lady  dear,"  he  answered,  gently. 


256  GLORIA 

"Oh,  but  I  must!  It  is  on  my  mind  and  it  must 
out !  I  have  heard  that  he  came  back  in  the  middle 
of  a  January  night — a  bitter  cold,  freezing  night. 
His  face,  they  say,  was  as  black  as  a  thunder  cloud, 
and  his  eyes  flashed  like  lightning.  Without  deign 
ing  a  word  to  one  of  the  servants,  who  came  to  at 
tend  him,  he  strode  at  once  to  the  chamber  of  his 
poor  young  victim  and  ordered  her  to  get  up  and 
dress  herself,  for  she  should  leave  his  house  that 
night !" 

"What  an  unheard-of  monster !"  exclaimed  David 
Lindsay. 

"Oh,  what  a  wretched  maniac !  for  no  man  in  his 
senses  would  have  acted  with  such  causeless  cruel 
ty.  In  vain  the  poor  creature  pleaded  to  know  what 
she  had  done  to  offend  him.  He  only  cursed  hei 
and  threatened  to  throw  her  from  the  window  un 
less  she  dressed  and  departed  at  once.  In  vain  she 
wept  and  begged  to  stay  till  morning.  He  told  her, 
with  many  fierce  curses,  that  by  this  delay  she  only 
trifled  with  his  temper  and  her  own  life.  Oh !  oh, 
David  Lindsay,  he  thrust  that  delicate  creature 
forth  in  the  freezing  air  of  that  bitter  January 
night  to  perish  on  the  mountains!"  exclaimed 
Gloria,  who  had  forgotten  all  her  own  troubles  in 
recalling  this  horrible  story. 

"And  did  she  so  perish?"  mournfully  inquired 
the  young  man. 

"I  do  not  know.  Some  weeks  from  that  night  a 
party  of  hunters  found  the  dead  body  of  a  woman 
on  the  mountain;  but  the  birds  of  prey  had  found 
it  first  and  it  was  unrecognizable!  Oh,  it  is  all  too, 
too  hideous!  It  was  supposed  to  be  the  body  of 
Dyvyd  Gryphyn's  victim,  and,  as  she  was  never 
heard  of  afterwards,  it  probably  was  hers." 


GLORIA  257 

"And  what  became  of  the  madman?  You  were 
right  in  calling  him  a  maniac,  Gloria,  for  such  he 
certainly  must  have  been.  You  said  that  he  was  the 
last  owner  of  Gryphynshold,  therefore  he  must  be 
dead.  How  did  he  die?" 

"Ah,  like  nearly  all  his  fierce  race!  A  violent 
death!  On  the  very  day  after  he  had  thrust  his 
poor  little  white  slave  out  into  the  winter  night,  he 
himself  fell  in  a  duel  with  one  of  the  reckless  com 
panions  of  his  demoniac  orgies  of  that  terrible  night 
when  he  commanded  the  hidden  beauty  to  come 
into  their  abhorrent  presence." 

"Killed  in  a  duel  at  last,"  muttered  David  Lind 
say  to  himself. 

"Yee,  and  with  him  perished  the  last  of  the  evil 
race  of  the  Gryphyns  of  Gryphynshold." 

"How  came  your  father  to  purchase  such  an  ill- 
omened  piece  of  property?" 

"It  was  advertised  to  be  sold  for  taxes.  Then  an 
heir  turned  up  in  a  Welsh  baronet,  who  spelled  Ms 
name  in  the  more  modern  and  civilized  manner  of 
G-r-i-f-f-i-n,  but  who  was  of  the  same  original  Welsh, 
stock,  the  next  of  kin,  and  the  heir-at-law,  though  a 
very,  very,  very  distant  cousin.  This  gentleman  did 
not  want  this  mountain  property,  and  so,  as  soon 
as  his  claim  to  it  was  established,  he  threw  the  es 
tate  into  the  market,  and  my  father  bought  it." 

"What  could  have  induced  Count  de  la  Vera  to 
buy  suck  a  place?" 

"He  was  looking  around  for  opportunities  to  in 
vest  his  money  in  Virginia  lands,  being  determined 
to  become  a  citizen  of  the  United  States.  He  thought 
the  Iron  Mountain  must  be  rich  in  the  ore  that 
gave  it  its  name,  and  rich  in  other  ores  as  well ;  and 
that  this  would  be  a  source  of  great  wealth  to  his 


258  GLORIA 

wife  and  children  in  the  future,  if  not  immediately 
to  himself ;  for  remember  that  my  mother  was  living 
at  the  time  of  the  purchase." 

"After  what  you  have  told  me,  dear,  I  question 
whether  that  would  be  a  desirable  residence  for  any 
one,  least  of  all  for  you,"  said  David  Lindsay, 
gravely. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  would.  I  particularly  wish  to  go 
there.  Ah,  I  know  not  why,  but  the  very  savage- 
ness  of  the  place  attracts  me !"  exclaimed  Gloria. 

"Who  is  in  charge  of  the  house?  Shall  we  find 
it  habitable?  Will  there  be  accommodations  for 
you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Gloria,  answering 
the  last  question  first;  "the  place  should  be  kept 
up;  my  father  purchased  it  just  as  it  was,  with 
slaves,  stock,  carriage  and  horses,  implements,  fur 
niture,  and  everything.  He  even  retained  the  hired 
white  overseer  and  the  housekeeper  who  had  been 
in  the  service  of  the  last  owner.  I  know  that  Uncle 
Marcel  used  to  receive  their  accounts  and  pay  their 
wages  twice  every  year." 

"So  you  have  decided  to  go  to  Gryphynshold?" 

"I  have  determined  to  go  there,"  said  Gloria, 
firmly. 

"Then  I  must  get  a  map  and  trace  out  our  course 
as  well  as  I  can,  and  afterwards  inquire  about 
stages." 

"I  can  tell  you  that ;  for  once  during  our  summer 
holiday  trips,  Marcel  and  I,  being  in  this  city, 
planned  to  go  and  take  a  look  at  my  mountain 
stronghold,  as  he  called  it.  So  we  left  Washington 
by  the  six  p.  M.  stage-coach  for  Winchester;  thence 
to  Staunton,  and  thence  to  the  Greenbriar  White 
Sulphur  Springs;  but  there  we  found  the  place  so 


GLORIA  259 

attractive  that  we  went  no  farther.  So  I  know  that 
we  must  commence  our  journey  by  the  stage  that 
leaves  here  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening.  What  time 
is  it  now?  Let  me  see,"  she  said,  as  she  consulted 
her  diamond-studded  little  gold  watch.  "It  is  half- 
past  one.  Now,  please  ring  and  order  a  carriage. 
I  must  go  out  and  buy  a  trunk,  a  work-box,  a  writ 
ing-desk,  a  dressing-case,  clothes,  needles  and 
thread,  stationery,  combs  and  brushes,  and  all  such 
necessaries  of  a  girl's  life,  before  going  into  that 
remote  mountain  wilderness.  And  at  the  same  time 
we  can  stop  at  the  stage  office  and  take  our  places." 

The  young  man  answered  by  ringing  the  bell, 
and  when  the  waiter  appeared  he  gave  the  requisite 
order. 

Gloria  went  in  her  chamber  to  put  on  her  sack 
and  hat. 

The  carriage  was  soon  announced,  and  in  five 
minutes  afterwards  the  young  pair  were  rolling 
along  the  avenue,  Gloria  looking  out  from  the  win 
dow  to  watch  for  the  signs  of  the  shops  she  wished 
to  visit. 

Presently  she  stopped  the  carriage  before  the  door 
of  the  only  general  dealer  and  outfitter  in  ladies' 
ready-made  garments  that  the  city  then  afforded. 

David  Lindsay  left  her  there  and  went  to  book 
their  places  in  the  Winchester  stage-coach. 

It  took  Gloria  three  full  hours  to  drive  from  place 
to  place  and  collect  all  she  wanted.  She  found 
them  all  without  leaving  the  avenue,  however.  She 
had  the  trunk  put  on  behind  the  carriage  and  ihe 
goods  all  piled  within  it,  to  save  time  by  taking 
them  to  the  hotel  herself.  Finally  she  reached  her 
rooms  at  about  five  o'clock  and  spent  half  an  hour 
in  diligent  packing. 


260  GLORIA 

David  Lindsay  then  came  to  take  her  down  to 
dinner,  which  they  had  scarcely  finished  before  the 
stage-coach  called  to  claim  them. 

In  those  slow  days  stage-coaches  did  not  start 
exactly  on  time,  as  railway  trains  are  supposed  to 
do  now.  I  have  known  a  stage-coach  to  wait  twenty 
minutes  while  John  C.  Calhoun  and  Henry  Clay 
leisurely  finished  their  breakfast  before  taking  their 
seats  to  leave  Washington  at  the  end  of  a  session 
of  Congress. 

Our  young  pair  did  not  keep  the  coach  waiting. 
They  soon  had  their  luggage  brought  down  and  be 
stowed  In  the  boot,  and  soon  after  found  themselves 
comfartably  seated,  the  only  passengers  except  two 
returning  country  dealers  who  had  been  East  to 
purchase  goods  for  the  spring  trade.  This  class 
indeed  formed  the  bulk  of  travelers  at  this  season 
of  the  year. 

It  was  dark  when  the  coach  started  on  its  long 
and  wearisome  journey. 

There  was  neither  moon  nor  stars  out,  for  the 
sky  was  quite  overclouded,  so  that  there  was  no 
temptation  for  the  passengers  to  gaze  abroad  as 
the  stage-coach  rattled  over  the  newly  macadamized 
avenue  on  through  Washington,  Georgetown,  Ten- 
nalleytown  to  Eockville,  where  it  changed  horses, 
and  where  one  of  the  travelers  left  them  and  an 
other  one  took  his  place. 

When  the  coach  started  again,  Gloria  curled  her 
self  up  in  her  corner  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep,  for 
she  was  in  no  way  interested  in  the  conversation 
concerning  the  dullness  of  the  trade  and  the  un- 
punctuality  of  debtors  which  the  country  merchants 
had  forced  upon  her  companion. 

Hocked,  or  fatigued,  by  the  rolling  of  the  cumber- 


GLORIA 

some  old  coach,  Gloria  was  soon  fast  asleep,  and 
she  slept  through  the  whole  night,  undisturbed  ex 
cept  by  the  stoppage  at  the  post-houses  to  change 
horses. 

At  sunrise  they  reached  Leesburg,  where  they 
stopped  to  breakfast  and  to  change  coaches,  taking 
the  Winchester  coach. 

They  rode  all  day  through  the  most  beautiful 
passes  of  the  lesser  Blue  Kidge  and  reached  Win 
chester  in  the  Valley  in  time  for  an  early  tea. 

Here  again  they  were  to  change  coaches  and  take 
the  S  taunt  on  stage. 

David  Lindsay  would  have  prevailed  on  Gloria  to 
stop  and  rest  till  morning,  but  she  was  determined 
to  pursue  her  journey. 

They  had  but  an  hour  here  before  the  starting  of 
the  Staunton  coach,  and  Gloria  made  the  most  of 
her  time  to  refresh  herself  by  a  wash  and  prepare 
comfortably  for  her  second  night's  ride. 

After  an  excellent  tea,  for  which  their  wintry 
day's  journey  had  given  them  a  keen  appetite,  the 
young  travelers  took  their  seats  in  the  Staunton 
coach  and  recommenced  their  journey. 

And  this  second  night,  poor,  disappointed  David 
Lindsay  slept  as  soundly  in  his  seat  as  did  the  will 
ful  beauty,  Gloria,  in  hers. 

Not  even  the  stoppage  of  the  coach,  to  change 
horses,  amid  the  flashing  lights  of  the  roadside  post- 
houses,  or  the  getting  off  of  old  passengers  and 
climbing  in  of  new  ones  succeeded  in  arousing  them, 
for  if  disturbed  they  would  draw  a  long  breath, 
slightly  change  position,  and  drop  asleep  again. 

They  never  opened  their  eyes  until  the  stage 
coach  stopped  at  Woodstock,  when  the  tumultuous 


GLORIA 

getting  out  of  their  fellow-passengers  at  once  fully 
awakened  them. 

Then  they  saw  that  the  sun  was  at  least  an  hour 
high,  and  that  the  horses  were  being  taken  from 
the  coach  before  a  spacious  hotel  in  the  principal 
street  of  a  country  town. 

"What  place  is  this?"  drowsily  inquired  David 
Lindsay. 

"Woodstock,  sir,  where  we  change  horses  and  get 
breakfast/'  answered  the  guard. 

David  handed  his  sleepy  companion  from  the  in 
side  of  the  heavy  old  vehicle,  and  led  her  into  a 
pleasant  parlor,  where  their  fellow-travelers  were 
already  gathered  around  a  large,  open  fireplace,  in 
which  a  glorious  hickory  wood  fire  was  blazing. 
The  party  there  made  room  for  the  young  lady. 

But  she  did  not  stay  with  them  long.  A  neat 
colored  girl  came  up  to  her  and  respectfully  whis 
pered  the  question  as  to  whether  she  would  not  like 
to  go  to  her  room  before  breakfast. 

Decidedly  Gloria  would  like  to  do  that  very 
thing.  So  she  arose  and  followed  the  girl,  who 
lifted  and  carried  the  young  lady's  traveling-bag 
to  a  spacious  chamber  over  the  parlor,  with  white 
dimity  window-curtains  and  bed-spread,  and  a  fine 
fire  blazing  up  the  open  chimney-place. 

The  girl  supplied  the  young  traveler  with  warm 
and  cold  water,  fresh  towels,  and  every  other  req 
uisite  for  the  toilet — informing  her,  meantime,  that 
she  had  half  an  hour  before  breakfast 

Gloria  was  glad.  She  sent  for  her  trunk  to  be 
brought  up,  and  had  a  thoroughly  refreshing  toilet, 
with  a  full  change  of  dress. 

Then,  as  fresh  as  if  she  had  risen  from  a  comfort 
able  bed,  instead  of  coming  out  of  a  lumbering 


GLORIA  263 

stage-coach,  she  went  down  and  joined  her  fellow- 
travelers  at  a  delicious  breakfast  of  coffee,  hot  rolls, 
buckwheat  cakes,  venison,  quails,  ham  and  every 
dainty  of  the  season. 

After  the  breakfast,  half  their  fellow-passengers 
entered  with  them  into  the  Staunton  coach.  (The 
other  half  had  diverged  in  various  directions.) 

Their  way  now  lay  down  the  great  valley  of  Vir 
ginia,  with  the  Blue  Eidge  mountains  on  the  east 
and  the  Alleghanies  on  the  west — a  paradise  of 
beauty  in  the  summer,  and  a  fine  country  even 
when  covered  with  snow,  as  it  was  n  ,,  in  mid 
winter. 

By  nightfall  they  reached  Staunton. 

Gloria  was  much  fatigued,  and  again  David 
Lindsay  implored  her  to  rest  for  one  night. 

But  Gloria,  willful  as  ever,  was  bent  upon  going 
on  until  she  should  reach  the  end  of  her  journey. 
That  extreme  bourn,  the  "Hold"  in  the  Iron  Moun 
tains,  on  the  confines  of  three  States,  possessed  a 
weird  attraction  like  the  lodestone,  and  drew  her 
on  and  on. 

"It  is  like  a  place  in  a  dream — a  place  in  a  night 
mare — but  it  fascinates  me  all  the  same,"  she  an 
swered  to  the  expostulations  of  David  Lindsay. 

After  a  substantial  supper,  finished  with  strong 
coffee,  the  travelers  who  were  to  go  farther  took 
seats  in  the  changed  coach,  and  began  the  third 
night's  journey  towards  Lexington. 

Again,  as  before,  the  two  young  people  slept 
throughout  the  ride,  only,  being  still  more  fatigued, 
they  slept  more  soundly  than  ever,  and  only  awak 
ened  when,  at  sunrise,  the  coach  drew  up  at  the 
hotel  in  the  main  street  of  the  little  town  of  Lex- 


264  GLORIA 

ington,  and  their  fellow-passengers  began  to  climb 
over  them  in  getting  out. 

Here  they  stopped  for  an  hour.  A  refreshing 
wash,  a  substantial  breakfast,  ard  a  brisk  walk  up 
and  down  the  village  street,  restored  the  strength 
and  spirit  of  the  wearied  young  pair,  so  that  they 
re-entered  the  lumbering  old  coach  without  any  re 
maining  oppression  from  fatigue,  and  well  pre 
pared  to  enjoy  the  day's  ride  through  the  varied 
scenery  of  hill  and  dale,  woods,  waters,  fields, 
farms,  towns  and  hamlets  that  diversified  the  val 
ley  that  k  *  between  the  two  great  ranges  of  moun 
tains.  >«• 

Towards  evening  the  valley  narrowed  and  the 
mountains  rose  until  the  road  seemed  to  be  ap 
proaching  a  gorge. 

While  there  was  yet  light  enough,  David  Lind 
say  drew  a  pocket  map  from  his  breast  and  began  to 
examine  it. 

"If  our  journey  takes  us  through  that  yawning 
chasm,  I  think  we  had  better  stop  for  the  night  at 
the  first  tavern  we  come  to,"  suggested  the  young 
man,  thinking  more  of  the  safety  of  his  companion 
than  of  his  own. 

"No !  where  the  coach  can  go,  we  can  go,  night 
or  day,"  persisted  Gloria, 

It  was  dusk  when  they  reached  the  gap  they  had 
seen  so  far  before  them.  There  was  a  great  stone 
building  on  a  river  that  broke  through  the  moun 
tains  at  this  point.  The  water  reflected  the  high 
precipices  and  the  buildings  with  their  gleaming 
lights.  The  place  was  a  combination  of  tavern, 
post-house,  mill  and  ferry. 

Here  they  stopped  to  change  horses  and  get 
supper,  after  which  the  coach,  with  its  passengers, 


GLORIA  265 

freight  and  horses,  was  ferried  across  the  river  to 
the  other  side,  and  then  it  took  the  road  beneath  the 
shelter  of  the  snow-clad  mountains,  and  kept  it, 
plodding  along  slowly  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

But  we  must  not  dwell  too  long    on    this   pic 
turesque  journey. 


CHAPTER  XX 

GRYPHYNSHOLD 

But  there  no  more  shall  human  voice 
Be  heard  to  rage — lament — rejoice — 
The  last  sad  note  that  swelled  the  gale 
Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail. 

BYRON. 

FROM  this  point,  however,  they  had  left  the  lovely 
landscape  of  the  valley  and  entered  as  by  a  natural 
gate  into  the  wild  mountain  scenery,  that,  as  they 
went  on,  grew  wilder,  more  dreary  and  desolate. 

They  were  two  more  days  and  nights  on  the  road, 
stopping  at  irregular  intervals  to  change  horses  at 
wayside  post-houses,  located  just  where  it  was  pos 
sible  to  put  them,  or  to  breakfast,  dine  and  sup  at 
roadside  taverns  or  little  village  hotels,  until  at 
the  close  of  the  fifth  day  from  starting  on  their 
wearisome  journey,  they  reached  a  ferry  on  the 
banks  of  a  narrow,  deep  and  rapid  river,  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  which  arose  a  lofty  range  of  dark, 
cedar-covered  mountains. 

Here  their  stage  journey  ended. 

They  loft  the  coach,  had  their  baggage  taken,  and 
entered  the  ferry-house. 


266  GLORIA 

The  coach,  after  changing  horses,  went  on  its 
way. 

Gloria  and  David  Lindsay  found  themselves  in  a 
homely  parlor,  with  bare  walls  and  bare  floor,  a 
few  flag-bottomed  chairs  and  a  pine  table.  The 
only  ornaments  were  a  defaced  looking-glass  be 
tween  the  windows  and  a  framed  picture  of  old- 
fashioned  sampler-work  representing  a  willow-tree 
over  a  tombstone,  hung  over  the  mantel-piece. 

It  was,  however,  heated  by  a  roaring  fire  of  great 
cedar  logs,  for  cedar  was  the  most  plentiful  wood 
in  that  mountain  region,  and  it  was  lighted  by  two 
tall  tallow-dips  in  iron  candlesticks. 

David  Lindsay  drew  forward  a  chair  and  placed 
it  before  the  fire  for  his  weary  companion,  and  then 
went  out  to  find  the  landlord,  ferryman,  or  some 
other  responsible  party. 

After  an  absence  of  a  few  moments  he  came  back, 
and  said: 

"Now,  dear,  I  have  two  plans  to  propose  to  you. 
Choose  between  them.  Mr.  Cummings,  the  land 
lord  here,  has  no  conveyance  except  a  heavy  wagon 
drawn  by  mules,  which  he  says  is  the  safest  sort 
for  these  mountain  roads,  and  in  which  he  is  will 
ing  to  send  us  on  to  Gryphynshold  either  to-night 
or  to-morrow  morning.  The  accommodations  here 
are  very  rude  and  plain,  as  you  see.  You  may  judge 
what  the  upper  rooms  are  by  this,  which  I  suppose 
is  the  best.  Now  it  is  for  you  to  decide  whether  to 
go  on  to-night  or  to  stay  here  and  rest  till  morning 
and  take  the  daylight  for  your  journey  to  Gryphyns 
hold." 

"Oh,  let  us  go  on  at  once !  Where  the  mules  can 
take  the  wagon,  surely  we  can  go,"  promptly  re 
plied  Gloria. 


GLORIA  267 

David  Lindsay  went  out  and  gave  the  order.  His 
exit  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  a  colored  girl, 
who  respectfully  invited  the  young  lady  to  go  up 
into  a  bed-room  where  she  could  lay  off  her  wraps 
and  refresh  herself  while  the  supper  and  the  wagon 
were  getting  ready. 

Gloria  willingly  followed  her,  and  took  the  bene 
fit  of  all  her  offered  services. 

Then,  feeling  much  better,  she  slipped  a  piece  of 
money  in  the  poor  girl's  hand  and  went  down  stairs, 
where  an  excellent  supper  awaited  them. 

Whatever  the  mental  troubles  of  the  young  pair 
might  be,  the  long  journey  over  the  snow-clad  and 
frozen  roads,  and  through  the  pure,  exhilarating  air 
of  mid-winter  had  given  them  fine,  healthy  appe 
tites,  and  they  both  did  full  justice  to  the  coffee, 
corn-bread  and  venison  steaks  that  were  set  before 
them. 

Immediately  after  supper  they  entered  the  heavy 
wagon,  into  which  their  luggage  had  already  been 
placed,  and  settled  themselves  to  continue  their 
journey  to  Gryphynshold. 

"Mind,  Tubal,"  called  the  landlord  to  his  negro 
driver,  "you  take  the  lower  road !  It  is  the  longest, 
but  it  is  the  safest." 

"Yes,  sar,"  responded  the  darkey. 

"And  when  you  get  to  the  DeviPs  Backbreaker  be 
sure  to  jump  off  and  lead  the  mules  all  the  way  up, 
or  there'll  be  an  accident.  Do  you  mind?" 

"Yes,  sar." 

"And  when  you  come  to  Sinking  Creek,  be  certain 
to  look  out  for  the  water -post,  to  see  if  it  is  low 
enough  to  ford." 

"Yes,  sar." 

"And  when  you  get  up  to  Peril  Ledge  get  off  and 


268  GLORIA 

lead  the  beasts  again ;  and  mind  you  be  very  care 
ful  !  I  don't  want  another  broken  neck  broughten 
back  here  for  a  crowner's  quest." 

"No,  sar." 

"Now,  then,  start,  and  mind  what  I  tell  you." 

"Yes,  sar/'  said  Tubal,  and  as  he  slowly  set  his 
mules  in  motion,  he  muttered  to  himself:  "  'Tain't 
de  dangers  ob  goin?  dere  to  old  Grippinwolf — 
omphe!  no!  I  don't  mind  goin'  dere,  but  as  to 
stayin'  dere  all  night  to  res'  de  mules — no,  sar! — 
not  Tubal!" 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  old  man?"  inquired 
David  Lindsay. 

But  by  this  time  they  had  reached  the  edge  of  the 
river,  and  Tubal's  whole  attention  was  engaged  in 
driving  his  mules  on  to  the  great  flat  ferry-boat, 
upon  which  stood  four  men  with  very  long  poles 
to  push  it  over. 

Nothing  more  was  said  until  after  they  had 
reached  the  other  side  and  Tubal  had  driven  the 
wagon  off  the  boat  on  to  a  road  running  between 
the  front  of  the  precipice  and  the  river. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  old  Gryphynshold  that 
you  would  not  stay  all  night  in  the  place?"  again 
questioned  David  Lindsay,  whose  interest  in  the 
ancient  house  had  been  deeply  excited  by  the  story 
of  the  last  owner. 

"What  de  matter  long  ob  Grippinwolf,  you  ax? 
Now,  look  here,  young  marster,  I  dunno  who  yer  is, 
nor  what  yer  arter  comin'  up  here  to  Grippinwolf, 
whar  no  decent  Christian  hasn't  been  visitin'  in  de 
memory  ob  man  !  But  you  jes'  take  a  fool's  advice 
an'  turn  right  square  roun'  an'  go  right  straight 
back  whar  yer  come  from.  Don't  keep  on  to  Grip 
pinwolf,"  said  the  old  man,  solemnly. 


GLORIA  269 

"Why  shouldn't  we  go  on?  What  is  the  matter 
with  Gryphynshold,  I  ask  you  again?"  inquired 
David. 

"Debbil's  de  matter  wid  it,  young  marster,  jes'  de 
debbil !  Not  as  I'd  mind  dat  so  much,  if  it  war  on'y 
de  debbil,  'cause  we  read  so  much  about  him  in  de 
catechism  dat  he  feels  like  a  ole  acquaintance  ob 
ourn — nateral  like — on'y  we  don't  want  to  fall  in 
his  hands.  No,  I  don't  mind  him  so  much;  but 
dere's  heap  wuss  dan  de  debbil  as  ails  old  Grippin- 
wolf." 

"What  is  it,  then?"  inquired  David,  interested,  in 
spite  of  his  better  reason. 

The  old  negro  paused,  as  if  to  give  full  effect  to 
his  words,  and  then  solemnly  replied : 

"Dead  people!" 

"  'Dead  people !' '  echoed  David  Lindsay,  in 
amazement. 

"Ooome !"  groaned  the  old  man. 

"How  can  the  dead  trouble  the  place?"  inquired 
the  young  man. 

"Ooome!"  groaned  the  negro. 

"What  do  they  do?  They  lie  quietly  in  their 
graves,  do  they  not?" 

"Ooome!     Hush,  honey!     I  wish  dey  did!" 

"What  do  they  do,  then?" 

Again  the  negro  paused  to  give  full  effect  to  his 
words,  as  he  mysteriously  replied : 

"Dey  walks !" 

"W^alks!" 

"Yes,  honey,  de  dead  people  walks  in  Grippin- 
wolf — walks  so  continual  dat  dey  won't  let  any 
body  else  lib  dere." 

"Why,  Mrs.  Brent,  the  housekeeper,  lives  there!" 


270  GLORIA 

exclaimed  Gloria,  putting  in  her  voice  for  the  first 
time. 

"What  say,  honey?"  inquired  the  negro. 

"I  say  the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Brent,  lives  there." 

"Who?  Her?"  exclaimed  Tubal,  in  such  a  tone 
of  scornful  denial  that  Gloria  hastened  to  add : 

"She  does  live  there,  does  she  not?" 

"Ole  mist'ess  lib  in  Grippinwolf?  Ooome!  Yer 
better  jes'  ax  her  to  lib  dere,  dat's  all !" 

"Then  the  housekeeper  does  not  live  in  the  house, 
if  I  understand  you  aright?"  said  Gloria,  in  un 
pleasant  surprise. 

"Hi,  what  I  tell  you,  honey?  Nobody  can't  lib 
dere  'mong  de  dead  people!" 

"What  nonsense  you  talk,  old  man.  Some  one 
must  live  there  to  take  care  of  the  house." 

"Well,  den,  dey  don't,  young  mist'ess,  an'  I  tell 
yer  so  good !  De  ghosts  has  'jected  everybody  out 
ob  dat  house,  and  dey  has  had  it  all  to  deirseJves 
dis  twenty  years  or  more." 

"Then  my  guardian  has  been  completely  de 
ceived!  He  has  been  paying  a  salary  to  a  house 
keeper  who  has  abandoned  her  duties.  And  if  the 
house  is  deserted,  as  he  says,  what  shall  we  do, 
David  Lindsay?"  inquired  Gloria,  in  a  tone  of  in 
dignant  distress  and  perplexity. 

"Turn  right  roun'  an'  go  straight  back  whar  yer 
come  from !  You  do  dat  while  times  is  good.  Dat's 
de  'wice  what  I  gibbed  yer  fust,  an'  dat's  de  'wice 
Avhat  I  gib  yer  last,"  said  Tubal,  answering  for  his 
passenger. 

"Is  there  no  one  on  the  place  to  receive  us,  then?" 
inquired  David  Lindsay. 

"Oh,  dere's  de  oberseer,  in  his  own  house,  'bout 
quarter  ob  a  mile  dis  side  ob  Grippinwolf  Hall;  but 


GLORIA  271 

Lor*,  de  people  'bout  here  don't  call  de  place  Grip- 
pinwolf  no  more — dey  calls  it  Ghost  Hall.'7 

"Where  does  the  housekeeper  live?"  inquired 
David  Lindsay. 

"Oh,  she — she  libs  at  de  gate  lodge.  She  moved 
dere  when  she  was  dejected  by  de  ghosts." 

"Now,  Gloria,  we  have  not  ridden  more  than  two 
miles  from  the  ferry.  What  would  you  like  to  do? 
Turn  back,  as  the  old  man  advises,  and  stop  at  the 
ferry  for  the  up  coach  and  take  our  places  for  the 
North,  and  for  some  other  home  of  yours  more  Con 
venient  and  attractive,  or  go  on  to  this?"  earnestly 
inquired  David  Lindsay. 

"Oh,  go  on  to  Gryphynshold,  by  all  means.  Since 
I  have  heard  the  supernatural  tales  told  by  this 
old  man,  which  well  supplement  the  horrible  stories 
told  me  by  Aunt  Agrippina,  I  am  more  than  ever 
determined  to  go  on  to  Gryphynshold.  The  over 
seer  can  certainly  give  you  a  bed  in  his  cottage 
for  to-night,  while  I  shall  stay  at  the  gate  lodge 
with  the  housekeeper " 

"And  as  for  me,"  put  in  the  old  negro,  "soon's 
ebber  I  gets  to  dat  same  gate-house,  which  won't 
be  'fore  midnight,  I  gwine  to  lop  you  all  right  down 
dere  an'  turn  right  round  and  dribe  my  mules 
straight  home  ag'in.  All  de  money  in  dis  univarse 
wouldn't  hire  ole  Uncle  Tubal  to  take  up  his  lodg 
ings  'long  ob  de  dead  people !  Leastways,  not  till 
I's  dead  myself!" 

"You  can  do  as  you  please,"  said  David;  "but  tell 
us  what  gave  rise  to  these  ridiculous  stories?" 

"What  rised  'em?  Why,  de  ghosts  rised  'em! 
De  ghost  ob  dat  ole  Satan's  demon  son,  Dyvyd 
Grippinwolf,  who  murdered  de  booful  young  ooraan 
as  he  stole  away  from  her  friends  an'  fotch  to  his 


272  GLORIA 

own  DebbiPs  den  up  yonder.  His  unquiet  ghost 
rages  up  and  down  all  night,  rushin'  t'rough  de 
halls  and  up  de  stairs,  a  slammin'  and  a  bangin' 
ob  de  doors  like  a  ravin'  mad  bull.  And  no  bolts 
or  bars  ebber  strong  enough  to  keep  him  out.  Dat's 
de  one  what  tarrifies  people  clean  out'n  deir  senses, 
young  marster,  I  tell  yer  good." 

"Is  old  Dyvyd  Gryphyn's  ghost  the  only  hob 
goblin  that  haunts  the  hold?"  inquired  David  Lind 
say,  with  a  smile. 

"Lor',  no !  Why,  dere's  crowds  of  'em  sometimes. 
All  de  wicked,  wiolent,  furious  old  Gryphyns  as 
ebber  libbed  dere — which  none  ob  'em  ebber  died 
in  deir  beds,  yer  know — all  ob  dem  died  wiolent 
deaths — holds  high  jubilee-la!  dere  ebbery  night 
'long  ob  all  de  debbils  out'n  de  pit !  Hush,  honey ! 
Dat  ole  house  up  dere  is  de  werry  mouf  ob  de  black 
pit  ob  Satan !  An'  ef  anybody  was  to  'xamine,  I 
reckon  dey'd  find  de  deep,  dry  well  in  de  cellar  was 
nuffin  less  dan  a  way  down  into  dat  same  black  pit 
ob  Satan ;  and  all  debbils  do  come  up  an'  down  it 
to  hold  high  jubilee-la!  along  with  all  de  wicked, 
furious  ole  ghosts  ob  de  Gryphyns!" 

"Has  any  one  ever  seen  any  of  these  dreadful 
orgies?"  inquired  David  Lindsay,  with  an  incredu 
lous  laugh. 

"You  may  laugh,  young  marster,"  said  the  old 
negro,  in  an  offended  tone;  "but  ef  yer  persists  in 
goin'  an'  stayin'  at  dat  ole  debbiFs  den,  you'll 
laugh  on  t'other  side  ob  your  mouf,  I  tell  yer  good." 

"Has  any  one  seen  any  of  these  horrible 
spectres?"  reiterated  David  Lindsay. 

"Hi!  What  I  tell  yer?  Didn't  Mr.  Oberseer 
Cummings  and  Mrs.  Housekeeper  Brent  bofe  see 
an'  hear  dem?  An'  didn't  de  ghost  deject  dem  out'n 


GLORIA  273 

de  house?  An'  I,  my  own  self,  wid  my  own  eyes, 
a  comin'  from  de  mill  one  night,  passed  in  sight 
ob  dat  ole  ghostly  house.  De  night  was  dark  as 
pitch!  Dere  was  nyder  moor  nor  stars,  an'  I 
couldn't  hab  seed  nuffin  only  for  my  eyes  gettin' 
use  to  de  dark,  yer  know.  An'  I  did  look  up  to 
de  ole  ghost  house,  standin'  way  up  dere  on  de 
mountain,  straight  an'  black,  against  de  dark  sky, 
an'  I  couldn't  see  no  windows  fust,  but  all  of  a 
sudden  I  saw  all  de  windows  in  de  front  ob  de  black 
looking  house!" 

With  this  culmination  of  horror,  old  Tubal  made 
an  awful  pause. 

But  as  no  one  made  the  expected  exclamation  of 
astonishment  the  old  man  inquired: 

"Now,  how  does  yer  fink  I  saw  all  de  windows 
in  dat  dark,  deserted  house  on  dat  dark  night?" 

"Heaven  knows!"  said  David  Lindsay. 

"Want  me  to  tell  you?" 

"Yes." 

"By  de  light  ob  de  ghosts'  eyes !" 

"WHAT!" 

"By  de  light  ob  de  ghosts'  eyes,  sure  as  I'm  a 
libbin'  sinner !  Dere  was  a  ghost  at  every  window, 
an'  at  some  windows  dere  was  two  or  free,  bofe  men 
an'  women  ghosts.  An'  every  one  ob  deir  eyes  was 
a  shining  like  an  inward  fire  an'  lightin'  up  all  de 
windows !" 

Again  the  narrator  made  an  awful  pause. 

Gloria  was  evidently  impressed  by  his  story.  Not 
so  David  Lindsay,  who  quietly  asked:  "Had 
you  taken  anything  to  drink  that  evening  old 
man?" 

"Who?  Me?  Don't  'suit  me,  young  marster ;  I'm 
a  Son  of  Tempunce,  an'  a  brudder  in  de  Beth  el  um 


274  GLORIA 

Methody  Meeting"  said  the  old  man,  in  dignified 
resentment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  really  do/'  replied  David 
Lindsay,  with  frank  courtesy. 

"I  did  gib  yer  de  bes'  Vice  in  my  power,  not  to 
go  nigh  dat  debbiPs  den !  But  course  you'll  do  as 
yer  likes.  No  offence,  young  marster." 

"'Why,  you  see  this  lady  is  fully  determined  to  go 
on  there,"  David  Lindsay  explained. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  added  Gloria.  "All  that  I  hear  of 
that  old  house  only  serves  to  confirm  my  resolution 
to  go  on  and  see  it.  We  can  find  accommodations 
with  the  overseer  or  the  housekeeper  for  this  one 
night,  David  Lindsay,  and  then  to-morrow  we  will 
have  the  old  stronghold  of  ghosts,  goblins  and 
devils  thrown  wide  open  to  the  light  of  heaven, 
and  see  if  we  cannot  exorcise  them.  We  will  make 
a  thorough  investigation,  David  Lindsay,  for  I  have 
quite  resolved  to  take  up  my  abode,  for  the  pres 
ent  at  least,  in  that  goblin-haunted  house,  and  I 
feel  that,  in  doing  so,  I  am  right." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

GHOST  HALL 

There  is  so  foul  a  rumor  in  the  air, 
The  shadow  of  a  presence  so  atrocious, 

How  could  a  human  creature  enter  there, 
Even  the  most  ferocious? 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

"WELL,  young   marster,   the  road   turns  right 
here,"  said  the  driver,  drawing  up  his  mules. 


GLORIA  275 

David  Lindsay  looked  out  of  the  wagon. 

On  his  left  lay  the  dark  river,  with  the  snow- 
covered  valley  beyond  it. 

On  his  right  towered  the  stupendous  precipice 
of  the  Iron  Mountain,  cleft  down  from  summit  to 
base,  showing  a  ravine  of  wildly  shattered  rocks, 
bristling  with  clumps  of  stunted  cedar  trees,  all 
dimly  seen  in  the  darkness  of  the  winter  night. 

"You  don't  call  that  a  pass,  do  you?"  inquired 
David  Lindsay,  incredulously,  peering  out  into  the 
gloom. 

"Dat's  de  road,  young  marster,  sure's  yer  born. 
Yer  better  look  at  it  good,  'fore  yer  make  up  yer 
mind  to  try  it." 

David  Lindsay  drew  in  his  head  and  spoke  to  his 
companion. 

"Look  out  and  tell  me  if  you  still  persist  in  going 
on,"  he  said. 

"I  will  look  out  just  to  please  you,  but  I  am  bent 
on  going  on !"  she  replied,  as  she  came  forward  and 
gazed  up  the  ravine. 

"Well?"  inquired  young  Lindsay. 

"Well,  it  looks  threatening — very!  But  I  said 
that  I  was  bent  to  go  on !  Where  the  mules  can  go, 
I  can  go,"  she  persisted. 

"Drive  on!"  exclaimed  the  young  man  to  the 
driver. 

Tubal  did  not  "drive,"  however.  He  slowly  de 
scended  from  his  seat  and  came  to  the  mules'  heads 
and  led  them  on. 

It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  the  heavy  wagon-cover 
concealed  the  terrors  of  the  road  that  otherwise 
must  have  been  discovered  even  through  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night,  and  daunted  Gloria's  uncon- 
quered  spirit. 


276  GLORIA 

After  a  precipitous  descent  and  the  crossing  of 
the  stream,  the  young  travelers  in  the  wagon  be 
came  conscious  that  the  road  was  rising  diagonally 
up  the  mountain  side. 

When  they  had  ascended  some  considerable  dis 
tance,  David  Lindsay  put  his  head  out  to  peer 
through  the  shadows  and  survey  the  scene. 

He  found  that  they  were  climbing  a  steep,  narrow 
road  on  the  face  of  the  mountain,  with  a  towering 
precipice  on  their  right  and  a  falling  one  on  their 
left,  and  no  room  for  any  vehicle  to  pass  that 
should  chance  to  meet  the  wagon. 

He  drew  in  his  head  and  was  careful  to  say  noth 
ing  to  his  companion  of  what  he  had  seen.  A  single 
start  of  the  mules — a  misstep — a  balk — would  be 
destruction  to  man  and  beast — for  over  and  down 
the  face  of  the  precipice  they  would  go. 

Higher  and  higher  they  climbed,  and  climbed  for 
hours  and  hours. 

Then  they  began  to  descend — slowly  and  heavily 
for  perhaps  an  hour  longer. 

Finally  old  Tubal  pulled  up  his  mules,  stood  to 
recover  his  breath,  and  then  came  to  the  front  open 
ing  in  the  cover  of  the  wagon,  and  said: 

"Well,  young  rnarster,  here  we  is  at  the  gate 
lodge  o'  Ghost  Hall,  or  DebbiPs  Den,  whichebber 
yer  likes  for  to  call  it.  I'll  let  yer  out  here,  young 
marster,  for  I  tell  yer  good,  no  money  yer  could  pay 
down  to  me  would  'duce  me  to  pass  t'rough  dem 
dere  gates  ob  hell !" 

"Come,  come,  Tubal,  don't  use  such  strong 
language  before  a  young  lady,"  said  David  Lindsay, 
as  he  descended  from  the  wagon  and  helped  his 
companion  to  alight. 

"I  don't  use  no  stronger  language  than  what  de 


GLORIA  277 

good  book  uses  anyways.  Help  me  to  lift  de  trunk 
out,  young  marster." 

"Let  us  see  first  whether  there  is  any  one  up  in 
the  gate-house/7  said  David  Lindsay,  as  he  left  the 
side  of  the  wagon. 

Then  he  suddenly  stood  still  gazing. 

The  sombre  scene  around  them  had  a  weird 
glamour  that  spell-bound  him  to  the  spot. 

"What  place  is  this?"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"It  is  like  a  place  seen  in  a  dream.  It  might  be  a 
place  in  some  other  planet,  in  some  dead  earth,  or 
extinct  sun !" 

It  was  an  awful  scene !  Mountains  rose  on  every 
side,  their  bases  clothed  with  dark  forest. 

Nearer  and  dimly  visible  under  the  overclouded 
night  sky,  towered  hideous  black  rocks,  and  dark, 
spectral  pine  trees  that  seemed  to  take  goblin 
shapes  in  the  obscurity.  Far  back  on  the  right 
hand,  from  the  midst  of  these,  and  scarcely  to  be 
distinguished  from  them,  loomed  the  roof  and  chim 
neys  of  Gryphynshold. 

The  utter  silence  as  of  death  that  reigned  over 
all,  added  to  the  gloom,  approaching  horror,  of  this 
stupendous  scene. 

David  Lindsay  turned  from  it  with  a  feeling  of 
superstitious  awe,  to  the  formidable  iron  gate  in 
the  stone  wall  that  ran  along  the  old  park  on  the 
right  hand  of  the  road. 

The  gate  was  not  locked,  but  hung  heavily  upon 
its  strong,  rusty  hinges,  shut  by  its  own  weight. 

On  the  right  of  this  gate  some  outlines  of  an  old 
lodge  could  be  dimly  seen  among  clustering  cedar 
trees. 

But  no  light  appeared  to  indicate  where  door  or 
window  might  be. 


278  GLORIA 

"De  old  7oman  has  gone  to  bed  hours  ago,  most 
like/'  pleasantly  remarked  the  wagoner,  as  David 
Lindsay  passed  through  the  iron  gate  and  the  wild 
thicket  of  cedar  bushes  and  rapped  at  the  door  of 
the  dark  house. 

"Who  is  there?"  almost  immediately  inquired  a 
voice  from  within. 

"Nobody  to  hurt  yer,  ole  mist'ess!"  shouted 
Tubal,  who  was  leaning  up  against  a  post  of  the 
gate,  utterly  refusing  to  enter  the  haunted  grounds. 
"Nobody  to  hurt  yer,  ole  mist'ess !  Yer  knows  me 
— Tubal  Cummings,  from  Wolf's  Gap  Ferry.  I 
done  fotch  a  young  lady  and  gempleman  here 
what's  come  to  wisit  yer." 

There  was  a  sound  of  movement  in  the  dark 
house,  and  presently  a  light  gleamed  through  the 
joints  of  the  windows,  and  soon  afterward  the  door 
was  opened  by  an  elderly  woman,  who  stood  on  the 
threshold,  bearing  a  flaming  tallow  candle  high 
above  her  head,  and  exclaiming: 

"Uncle  Tubal!  Do  you  say  you  have  brought 
visitors  here  at  this  place,  at  this  hour  of  the  night? 
Who  are  they,  and  what  do  they  want?" 

"Dat's  jes'  what  dey  mus'  'splain  for  deirselves, 
Mistress  Brent.  Yer  don't  catch  dis  ole  chile  comin' 
in  dere  to  tell  yer!"  exclaimed  the  man,  beating  a 
retreat  to  the  shelter  of  his  wagon. 

"Tell  her  precisely  who  we  are,  David  Lindsay. 
Tell  her  the  exact  truth,"  said  Gloria,  coming  to  his- 
side. 

Young  Lindsay  went  up  to  the  housekeeper  and 
Gloria  followed  closely.  They  could  not  see  the 
face  of  the  woman,  for  the  candle  she  held  aloft  cast 
her  into  deep  shadow. 


GLORIA  279 

"Let  me  introduce  myself  and  this  young  lady, 
madam " 

"Who  are  you,  then?"  abruptly  interrupted  the 
housekeeper. 

"This  is  the  young  lady  of  the  manor.  You  will 
probably  recognize  her  when  you  look  at  her, 
though  I  hear  you  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was 
seven  years  old.  I  have  the  honor  to  be  her  hus 
band,  and  my  name  is  Lindsay,"  replied  the  young 
man. 

"Gra-cious  Heav-ens!"  cried  the  woman,  lower 
ing  the  candle,  and  holding  it  closely  under  the 
stranger's  nose,  to  the  great  danger  of  his  silky 
beard. 

"Look  at  me,  Mrs.  Brent,  and  see  if  you  can  re 
member  me,"  said  Gloria,  with  a  smile. 

The  candle  was  quickly  transferred  from  the 
danger  of  singeing  David's  mustache  to  that  of 
scorching  Gloria's  nose,  as  the  old  housekeeper 
peered  into  the  girl's  face. 

"Ye-es.  N-no.  I  don't  know.  I  see  something 
in  the  eyes  like,  but " 

The  old  woman  stopped  and  put  the  candle  so 
close  to  the  girl's  brow  that  Gloria  started  and 
shrank  back. 

"Pray  do  not  keep  the  young  lady  standing  out 
here  in  this  bitter  cold.  She  is  already  chilled  and 
weary.  Let  us  come  in.  We  expected  to  find  you 
at  the  house  yonder.  But  that  being  shut  up  and 
deserted,  we  must  beg  shelter  from  you  even  here," 
persisted  David  Lindsay. 

"Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Come  in.  I  did  not  get 
your  letter,  indeed  I  did  not,  sir,  or  I  should  have 
been  ready  for  you.  But  you  see  Wolf's  Gap — 
that's  the  nearest  post-office — is  a  long  way  off, 


280  GLORIA 

and  we  never  send  there  except  four  times  a  year, 
when  Mr.  Cummings,  the  overseer,  sends  in  his 
quarterly  reports.  I  didn't  get  your  letter  to  say 
you  were  coming.  I  am  very  sorry,  ma'am,  that 
there  is  nothing  better  than  this  poor  house  to  ask 
you  to,  but  such  as  it  is,  you  are  welcome,"  said 
Mrs.  Brent,  as  she  led  the  young  pair  into  a  large 
room,  in  which  a  great  fire  of  hickory  logs  smoul 
dered  luridly  in  the  deep,  broad  chimney-place. 

She  lighted  a  second  candle  and  placed  both  on 
the  mantel-shelf,  and  then  took  from  a  large  deal 
box  near  the  chimney  corner  a  handful  of  dry 
brushwood  and  put  it  under  the  smouldering  logs, 
kindling  them  into  a  ruddy  blaze. 

Finally  she  placed  two  chip-bottomed  chairs  be 
fore  the  fire  and  invited  her  visitors  to  be  seated. 

"So  sorry  I  did  not  get  your  letter,  indeed,  sir," 
she  repeated,  as  she  once  more  stirred  the  fire. 

"We  did  not  write.  There  was  no  time.  We 
made  up  our  minds  rather  suddenly,  one  day,  to 
come  down  here,  and  we  started  the  same  evening," 
said  Gloria,  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
stretched  her  half-frozen  feet  and  hands  to  the 
genial  blaze. 

"Oh,  indeed,  then,  I  feel  so  relieved !  Of  course, 
you  could  not  have  expected  to  find  the  house  pre 
pared  for  you,  and  are  not  disappointed,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Brent. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  we  are  rather  so ;  for  we 
expected  to  find  you  living  up  at  the  hall,  and  some 
rooms  at  least  kept  in  readiness  for  just  such  a  con 
tingency  as  this,"  replied  Gloria. 

"Living  up  at  the  other  house!  Oh,  young  lady, 
you  don't  know !  But  I'll  say  nothing  about  that 


GLORIA  £81 

now.  I  am  so  grieved  not  to  have  things  comfort 
able  for  you  here !" 

"Never  inind — never  mind!"  exclaimed  Gloria, 
good-naturedly.  "To-morrow  is  a  new  day,  and 
everything  can  be  arranged  then.  As  for  to-night, 
we  are  both  so  tired  with  our  week's  ride  that  I 
think  we  could  rest  comfortably  in  any  motionless 
place.  I  shall  remain  here  with  you,  and  Mr.  Lind 
say  will  get  our  wagoner  to  show  him  the  way  to 
the  overseer's  house,  where  he  proposes  to  lodge." 

"But  that  is  such  a  pity,  to  separate  you  two! 
Though,  indeed,  I  have  got  only  one  bedroom — the 
one  above  this — there  are  two  beds  in  it.  I  and 
my  niece  sleep  in  one.  The  other  is  vacant  and  at 
your  service,  ma'am,  if  you  don't  object  to  sharing 
our  room  with  us,"  said  Mrs.  Brent,  apologetically. 

"Not  at  all !  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  lie  down  any 
where  after  sitting  up  for  a  week,"  answered 
Gloria. 

"But  you  would  like  some  supper,  sir?"  inquired 
the  housekeeper,  turning  to  David  Lindsay. 

"No,  I  thank  you.  We  had  supper  at  Wolfs  Gap, 
and  we  only  need  rest.  Gloria,  I  will  go  out  and 
speak  to  the  wagoner,  and  see  if  he  is  ready  to  guide 
me  to  the  overseer's  house.  I  will  also  get  him  to 
help  me  in  with  your  trunk,"  he  whispered,  as  he 
arose  and  left  the  room. 

Gloria  now,  for  the  first  time  since  her  arrival, 
looked  at  the  apartment  and  its  occupant.  It  was 
a  large,  rude  place,  with  a  bare,  flagstone  floor, 
bare,  unplastered  stone  walls;  in  front  a  heavy 
oaken  door,  flanked  by  two  large  windows,  whose 
very  sills  were  stone;  a  ceiling  with  heavy  rafters 
crossing  it,  and  finally,  the  immense,  yawning  fire 
place,  with  its  iron  dogs  supporting  the  great, 


282  GLORIA 

smouldering  hickory  logs  from  whence  the  light 
blaze  of  brushwood  had  already  died  away. 

The  furniture  was  as  rude  as  the  room — heavy 
oaken  chairs  and  tables,  a  spacious  dresser  with 
broad  shelves  reaching  from  the  floor  to  ceiling, 
and  furnished  with  all  the  crockery  ware,  cutlery, 
tin,  pewter,  and  iron  utensils  of  the  little  menage. 

In  another  corner  a  tall,  coffin-like  old  clock 
stood,  with  its  foot  on  the  flagstone  floor,  and  its 
head  to  the  rafters.  A  rug  of  home-made  rag  car 
pet  lay  before  the  fire,  and  mats  of  a  similar  ma 
terial  lay  before  the  front  and  back  doors. 

That  was  all.    It  was  a  rude,  plain  room. 

From  the  contemplation  of  the  place  Gloria 
turned  to  the  inhabitant. 

The  latter  was  a  tall,  thin,  dark-skinned  woman 
with  small,  deep-set  black  eyes  that  had  a  watchful, 
sidelong,  frightened  glance,  like  those  of  a  person 
who  had  suffered  one  overwhelming  terror  and  was 
continually  looking  out  for  another.  Her  hair  was 
quite  white  and  parted  smoothly  over  her  forehead, 
and  confined  by  a  close  white  linen  cap  tied  under 
her  chin.  She  wore  a  long,  narrow,  black  gown, 
without  a  scrap  of  white  about  her  neck  or  hands. 

"This  is  a  poor,  rude  place  for  you  to  be  in,  Mrs. 
Brent.  Surely  not  to  be  compared  with  the  com 
fortable  apartments  that  must  have  been  assigned 
you  in  the  manor  house,"  said  Gloria,  compassion 
ately. 

"Oh,  young  lady,  don't  mention  the  manor  house. 
Don't !  You  don't  know ;  you  can't  know.  But  I'll 
say  nothing  more  about  that  now.  Here  comes  the 
gentleman."  David  Lindsay  had  pushed  open  the 
door,  and  was  coming  in,  holding  one  handle  of  the 
trunk  while  Tubal  Cummings  held  the  other. 


GLORIA  283 

They  sat  it  down  on  the  floor,  and  Tubal  imme 
diately  bolted,  flinging  behind  him  these  words: 

"I'll  wait  for  yer  outside  the  gate,  young  marster. 
I  can't  stay  here,  indeed !" 

David  Lindsay  laughed,  saying : 

"I  had  the  utmost  difficulty  in  persuading  that 
old  man  to  help  me  with  the  trunk.  I  had  at  length 
to  bribe  him  heavily  before  he  would  venture  to  do 
it.  And  what  do  you  suppose  he  means  to  do,  after 
leaving  me  at  the  overseer's?" 

"What?"  inquired  Gloria. 

"Go  all  the  way  back  to  Wolfs  Gap  to-night." 

"I  know  he  declared  that  he  would  do  so;  but  I 
did  not  think  he  would  keep  his  word,"  replied 
Gloria. 

"Now,  dear,  in  mercy  to  the  old  fellow  who  has 
such  a  long  way  to  return,  I  must  bid  you  good 
night.  You,  also,  need  rest  so  much  that  you  had 
better  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible."  So  saying, 
David  Lindsay  took  her  hand,  pressed  it  and  left 
the  lodge. 

The  old  housekeeper  stared. 

"Is  that  the  way  your  husband  takes  leave  of 
you?  I  never  did!  I  really  never  did !"  she  said. 

"We  understand  each  other,"  said  Gloria,  smiling. 

"Well,  if  you  do,  I  suppose  that  is  enough,"  mut 
tered  Mrs.  Brent,  who  all  this  time  was  busy  beat 
ing  up  eggs  with  sugar  in  a  bowl,  while  something 
spicy  simmered  in  a  saucepan  before  the  fire. 

Now  she  took  the  saucepan  and  slowly  poured  its 
contents  over  the  beaten  eggs  in  the  bowl,  stirring 
thoroughly  with  a  spoon  as  she  poured. 

Then  she  filled  a  tumbler  with  the  pungent  and 
fragrant  compound,  and  gave  it  to  Gloria,  saying 
kindlv: 


284  GLORIA 

"Take  this,  honey.  It  is  as  nice  a  glass  of  spiced 
mulled  cider  as  ever  I  brewed  n  my  life.  It  will 
warm  you  all  through,  and  drive  out  any  cold  you 
may  have  caught." 

Gloria  smiled,  and  thanked  her  kind  hostess,  and 
took  and  sipped  the  spicy  beverage  which  she  found 
delicious  in  taste  and  delightful  in  effect. 

The  housekeeper  filled  a  second  glass  for  herself, 
and  sat  down  and  sipped  it  for  company. 

"I  should  have  offered  to  make  some  for  your  gen 
tleman,  honey,  only  as  he  was  going  out  in  the  cold 
again  it  would  have  done  him  more  harm  than  good. 
Besides,  to  tell  the  honest  truth,  I  don't  think  such 
indulgence  in  drink  is  good  for  young  men  anyhow. 
They  begin  with  cider,  and  are  too  apt  to  end  with 
rum." 

Very  much  revived  and  comforted,  Gloria 
finished  her  mulled  cider  and  put  her  glass  upon 
the  mantelpiece. 

"Now,  then,  dear,  we  will  go  up  stairs  to  bed," 
said  Mrs.  Brent,  placing  her  own  glass  beside  the 
other  one,  and  blowing  out  one  candle  and  taking 
the  other. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  lock  the  door?"  inquired 
the  visitor. 

"Law,  child,  why?  There  is  no  one  to  molest  us 
— except  those  that  no  locks  can  keep  out.  How 
ever,  I'll  do  it  to  please  you,"  said  Mrs.  Brent, 
going  to  the  door  and  turning  the  key. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"You're  welcome,  honey.  Now,  then,  come  to 
bed,"  she  added,  as  she  led  the  way  through  the 
back  door  to  a  narrow  passage  from  which  a  stair 
case  ascended  to  the  upper  room. 


GLORIA  285 

Gloria  picked  up  her  carpet-bag  and  followed  her 
conductress. 

The  room  above  was  of  the  same  size  with  the  one 
below — like  that,  the  walls  were  of  hewn  stone, 
unplastered,  but  the  floor  was  of  heavy  oak  planks. 
There  were  three  large  windows  in  front,  all  hung 
with  coarse  blue  and  white  plaid  cotton  curtains. 
There  was  a  fire-place,  a  size  smaller  than  the  one 
below;  a  pine  table,  with  a  small  standing  looking- 
glass  on  it,  under  the  middle  window,  opposite  the 
fire.  There  were  two  beds  in  the  corners  of  the 
room,  with  their  low  head-boards  immediately 
under  the  two  end  windows,  on  each  side  of  the 
rude  dressing-table. 

One  of  these  beds  was  smoothly  made  up,  as  if 
waiting  its  occupant.  The  other  was  tumbled  and 
tenanted. 

"Come  here,"  said  Mrs.  Brent  in  a  whisper,  going 
towards  the  latter. 

Gloria  followed  her  and  beheld  the  sleeper,  who, 
in  some  restlessness,  had  thrown  off  the  cover,  re 
vealing  her  head,  breast  and  arms. 

She  was  a  very  young  girl,  with  a  delicate  face 
and  fragile  form,  fair,  transparent  complexion, 
blooming  rosy-red  on  cheeks  and  lips,  very  light, 
golden-red  hair  clustering  in  glittering  tendrils 
around  the  white  forehead  and  roseate  cheeks,  and 
with  petite  features.  She  would  have  been  a  per 
fect  little  beauty  but  for  some  irregularities  that 
were  even  more  piquante  and  charming  than  any 
classic  perfection  could  possibly  be.  First,  her 
dark  brown  eyebrows  were  of  the  fly-away  pattern, 
depressed  towards  the  bridge  of  the  nose  and  raised 
towards  the  temples.  Her  tiny  nose,  no  bigger  than 
a  baby's,  was  the  most  dainty,  yet  the  most  decided 


286  GLORIA 

pug  that  ever  was  seen.  Her  upper  lip  was  short, 
and  her  chin  pointed.  The  whole  character  and 
expression  of  the  fair,  dainty,  petite  face,  was  sly, 
roguish,  mischievous,  not  to  say  impish  and  malign. 
One  arm,  the  under  one,  as  she  lay  upon  her  right 
side,  was  drawn  back  with  crooked  elbow  and 
clenched  little  fist.  The  other  arm,  the  upper  one, 
was  thrown  over  the  pillow,  also  with  crooked 
elbow  and  clenched  little  fist.  The  attitude  of  the 
little  sleeping  beauty  was  a  belligerent  one. 

"Now  that's  my  niece  Philly — Philippa,  you 
know,  ma'am — and  that's  the  way  she  always 
sleeps.  Just  like  a  kitten  or  a  puppy  that  is  dream 
ing  of  a  fight.  Now  just  you  watch!" 

With  these  words,  Mrs.  Brent  took  hold  of  the 
shoulder  of  the  sleeper,  exclaiming : 

"Phil!  Phil!  Wake  up!  Move  farther!  You'll 
tumble  out  of  the  bed !" 

The  sleeper  gave  a  little  growl  and  a  great 
bounce,  and  threw  herself  over  on  her  other  side, 
striking  another  aggressive  attitude,  and  imme 
diately  relapsed  into  deep  sleep.  Gloria  could  not 
help  laughing  as  she  said : 

"She  is  very  pretty  and  very  good-humored,  I  am 
sure,  notwithstanding  that  she  dreams  of  fights !" 

"Oh,  yes,  she  is  a  good  girl  enough,  but  an  awful 
trial  for  all  that!" 

"Your  niece,  you  said?" 

"Yes,  my  niece,"  repeated  the  housekeeper,  as  she 
covered  the  sleeping  girl  and  set  the  candle  on  the 
mantelpiece. 

Then,  while  the  two  undressed  and  prepared  for 
bed,  Mrs.  Brent  volunteered  some  further  informa 
tion. 

"You  see  there's  a  good  many  Cummingses  round 


GLORIA  £87 

about  here,  of  a  good  old  Scotch  family,  too.  Did 
you  never  read  of  the  Red  Comyns  and  the  Black 
Corny  ns  in  your  school-books,  honey?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Well  these  Cummingses  are  of  the  same  old  clan. 
I  was  a  Cummings  myself  before  I  was  married. 
I  am  a  lone  widow  now,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  so." 

"Well,  I  had  three  brothers.  Alexander,  who  is 
the  landlord  and  ferryman  and  post-master  down 
at  Wolfs  Gap;  and  Ralph,  who  is  your  overseer 
here;  and  last  of  all,  poor  Cuthbert,  my  youngest 
brother,  who  was  the  father  of  this  girl,  Philly. 
He  used  to  drive  the  stage  between  Wolfs  Gap  and 
Hill  Top  in  North  Caroliny,  but  he  and  his  wife 
have  been  in  heaven  this  many  a  day.  Philly  used 
first  to  live  with  Aleck  at  Wolfs  Gap.  I,  having 
no  children  of  my  own  and  being  lonesome  like, 
have  adopted  the  orphan.  And  a  great  charge  she 
is  to  me!  Why,  ma'am,  I  had  rather  undertake 
ten  boys  than  one  such  girl.  She  rides  the  wildest 
horses ;  she  hunts  the  worst  game.  Yes !  She  rides, 
shoots  and  hunts  like  a  wild  Indian!  And  even 
dreams  of  it  when  she  sleeps." 

"I  shall  like  Philly!  I  am  sure  I  shall  like 
Philly!  There  is  something  in  her,"  exclaimed 
Gloria,  as  she  got  into  her  own  bed  and  drew  the 
cover  closely  up  around  her  neck,  for  it  was  keenly 
cold  up  in  these  mountain  regions,  so  that  the  great 
wood  fire  scarcely  sufficed  to  warm  the  room. 

The  housekeeper  blew  out  the  candle  and  laid 
herself  down  to  rest. 

Gloria,  utterly  prostrated  with  her  week's  ride, 
no  sooner  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow  than  she 


288  GLORIA 

dropped  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep  that  lasted 
until  far  into  the  next  morning. 

When  she  awoke,  at  length,  the  sun  was  shining 
in  through  the  blue  and  white  checked  curtains. 

She  looked  around  in  some  confusion  on  the  rude, 
unplastered  walls  and  ceiling,  the  bare  oak  floor, 
and  the  unpainted  wooden  chairs  and  table,  quite 
unable  to  remember  where  she  was;  but  in  a  few 
moments  memory  returned,  and  she  understood  the 
situation. 

There  was  no  one  but  herself  in  the  room,  which 
was  now  restored  to  perfect  order,  the  other  bed 
being  made  up,  the  fire  replenished,  the  hearth 
swept,  and  fresh  water  and  clean  towels  placed  on 
the  rude  dressing-table. 

"They  have  all  got  up  and  left  me  to  sleep  my 
fatigue  off,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  as  she  left  the  bed 
and  began  to  make  her  plain  morning  toilet. 

She  was  soon  dressed  in  a  dark  blue  cashmere 
gown,  with  white  linen  cuffs  and  collar,  and  a  black 
bow. 

Then  she  went  down  stairs  and  found  Mrs.  Brent 
in  the  lower  room,  and  seated  before  the  fire  en 
gaged  in  carding  wool. 

"Good-morning,  honey!  You  have  had  a  real 
good  sleep,  and  I  hope  it  has  done  you  good!"  she 
said,  rising,  and  placing  a  chair  to  the  fire  for  her 
young  guest. 

"Indeed  I  have,  Mrs.  Brent;  thank  you.  It  must 
be  very  late." 

"Look  at  the  clock,  my  dear.  It  is  after  ten. 
Well,  I  am  glad  you  slept  so  long.  I  would  not 
have  disturbed  you  if  you  had  slept  all  day.  Now 
you  are  down  I  will  get  you  a  bit  of  breakfast  in  a 
•few  moments,"  said  Mrs.  Brent,  as  she  took  up  a 


GLORIA  289 

tea-kettle  which  was  sitting  on  the  hearth  before 
the  fire,  and  hung  it  over  the  blaze,  where  it  imme 
diately  began  to  sing  for  boiling. 

"Has  any  one — I  mean  has  Mr.  Lindsay  been  here 
this  morning?"  inquired  Gloria, 

"Oh,  yes,  honey.  Mr.  Lindsay  and  my  brother, 
the  overseer,  you  know,  were  here  by  seven  o'clock 
this  morning;  but  Mr.  Lindsay  wouldn't  let  you 
be  disturbed  on  no  account.  He  asked  me  to  keep 
everything  very  quiet,  so  as  to  let  you  sleep  as  long 
as  possible,  which  I  am  sure  I  have  done,  my  dear," 
replied  the  housekeeper  while  she  was  taking  the 
tea-pot  and  the  cannister  from  the  dresser  to  make 
the  tea." 

"Where  are  they  now?"  inquired  Gloria. 

"Oh,  they  went  right  off  up  to  the  old  house  to 
open  and  air  it.  Yes,  more  than  three  hours  ago," 
answered  the  dame,  as  she  made  the  tea  and  set  it 
to  draw. 

"When  will  they  be  back?" 

"Well,  when  they  have  done  the  job,  I  guess ;  but 
I  don't  know  when  that  will  be,"  replied  the  dame, 
as  she  took  two  dressed  partridges  from  a  plate 
on  the  shelf,  and  laid  them  over  the  fire. 

"You  see,"  she  added,  as  she  took  a  cedar  board 
about  the  size  of  a  shingle,  and  plastered  one  side 
of  it  over  with  a  thick  corn-meal  batter,  and  put  it 
before  the  fire,  propped  up  by  a  smoothing-iron. 
"You  see,  they  will  have  to  open  all  the  doors  and 
windows  from  cellar  to  garret,  and  kindle  fires  in 
every  fire-place — that  will  take  them  pretty  much, 
all  day." 

"Well,  I  think,  if  you  will  kindly  direct  me,  I  will 
walk  up  to  the  house  as  soon  as  I  have  taken  break 
fast." 


290  GLORIA 

"I  would  advise  you  not  to  go  yet  awhile,  honey," 
said  the  housekeeper. 

And  now  she  became  so  busy — laying  the  cloth, 
then  turning  the  johnny-cake,  putting  the  crockery- 
ware  on  the  table,  then  turning  the  partridges — 
flying  quickly  from  hearth  to  cupboard,  and  from 
cupboard  to  fire-place — that  Gloria  could  keep  up 
no  sustained  conversation. 

"Now,  then,  sit  up  and  take  your  breakfast,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Brent,  when  she  had  at  last  got  the 
frugal  morning  meal  upon  the  table. 

"These  partridges  are  delicious,"  said  Gloria, 
when,  with  an  appetite  whetted  by  the  keen  moun 
tain  air,  she  had  eaten  a  half  of  one. 

"Yes,  that's  some  of  Philly's  game!  She  shot 
them  on  Saturday.  The  imp  is  good  for  something. 
Only  you  see,  honey,  when  she  goes  out  I  am  always 
in  a  dread  that  she'll  never  get  back  alive.  Maybe 
never  be  heard  of  again  until  her  bones  are  found 
bleaching  on  some  rocky  ledge!" 

"Oh,  how  dreadful !  You  ought  not  to  entertain 
such  dismal  thoughts!" 

"I  can't  help  it,  honey,  when  that  girl  goes  on  as 
she  does!" 

"Would  you  have  such  fears  for  a  boy?" 

"Lord,  no !  My  nephews,  Ralph's  boys,  go  hunt 
ing  almost  every  day  and  keep  the  hotel  down  there 
at  Wolf's  Gap  supplied  with  game;  but  they  are 
boys." 

"Well,  and  she's  a  girl." 

"But  they  know  how  to  take  care  of  themselves." 

"And  so  does  she,  I  have  no  doubt,  a  great  deal 
better  than  they  do.  I  like  Philly.  I  am  sure  I 
shall  like  her  very  much.  Where  is  she  now?" 

"Oh,  gone  out  with  her  gun  and  dogs.    What  do  I 


GLORIA  291 

tell  you?  WLen  she  isn't  about  some  mischief  she 
is  dreaming  of  it." 

"I  am  her  debtor  for  a  delicious  breakfast.  I  will 
not  hear  her  blamed.  I  like  Phil  better  the  more  I 
think  of  her.  I  admire  her  all  the  more  for  having 
such  a  dauntless  spirit  in  such  a  little,  fragile 
body." 

Gloria  had  scarcely  spoken  these  words  when 
there  was  a  sudden  and  tumultuous  entrance  of  a 
girl  in  a  cap,  jacket,  short  skirt,  and  long  boots, 
Avith  a  game-bag  slung  over  her  shoulders,  a  fowl 
ing-piece  in  her  hands,  and  a  couple  of  dogs  at  her 
heels. 

She  set  her  gun  down  with  a  ringing  clank  in  the 
corner,  then  pulled  her  game-bag  off  and  threw  it 
on  the  floor  at  the  feet  of  the  old  laay,  exclaiming: 

"There  auntie!  There's  a  treat  for  your  dinner! 
Eight  brace  of  birds,  and  all  bagged  in  less  than 
two  hours !  Say !  have  you  got  any  fresh  meat  for 
2Eneas  and  Dido?  Good  dogs!  Good  dogs!"  she 
continued,  patting  the  heads  of  a  fine  pointer  and 
a  finer  retriever. 

"My  dear,  don't  you  see  a  lady  present?"  said  the 
housekeeper,  in  an  admonishing  tone. 

The  girl  seemed  to  see  the  lady  for  the  first  time. 
She  fell  back  a  step  or  two,  dropped  her  chin  upon 
her  chest,  turned  up  her  eyes  shyly,  and  put  her 
finger  in  her  mouth  like  a  stupid  and  awkward 
child  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger. 

"Mrs.  Lindsay,  this  young  person  is  my  naughty 
niece,  Philippa." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Cummings,"  said 
Gloria,  who  could  not  help  thinking  all  that  awk 
ward  shyness  was  just  put  on  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing. 


292  GLORIA 

"My  name  is  Phil.  I  don't  know  myself  by  any 
other  name,7'  replied  the  girl,  giving  her  hat  a  push 
that  cocked  it  on  one  side  of  her  curling,  salmon- 
colored  hair,  and  gave  an  additional  air  of  impish- 
ness  to  the  mischievous  face  beneath. 

"Then  I  am  even  gladder  to  see  you,  Phil! 
Gladder  than  I  should  be  to  see  Miss  Cummings.  I 
hope  we  will  be  friends.  Shall  we,  Phil?" 

"I  don't  know — maybe — I  think  so — if  you  don't 
begin  to  put  on  airs  with  us,"  slowly  and  conde 
scendingly  replied  the  elf. 

"I  hope  I  shall  do  nothing  so  silly.  Why  should 
you  suspect  me?" 

"Oh,  I  know  you  are  our  young  lady  of  the 
manor,  and  have  come  with  your  fine  husband,  who 
is  a  very  great  man  indeed,  to  take  possession  of 
everything!  If  the  ghosts  up  there  will  let  you. 
Ah !"  said  the  imp,  with  a  malign  leer  in  her  beau 
tiful,  long,  light  blue  eyes. 

"I  am  truly  sorry,  but  I  am  really  not  to  blame 
for  being  your  lady  of  the  manor.  It  was  a  provi 
dential  arrangement  in  which  I  was  no  more  con 
sulted  than  I  was  about  being  born.  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me  for  finding  myself  in  such  an  ob 
noxious  position,  and  be  my  friend,"  said  Gloria, 
with  a  good-humored  sarcasm  that  seemed  to  win 
the  impish  creature  before  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  for  you.  I  don't 
know  how  to  be  anybody's  friend  unless  I  can  do 
something  for  them.  I  can  do  nothing  for  you  but 
keep  you  in  birds  and  hares  and  such.  That  is  not 
much.  They  are  so  plenty  in  the  forests  below 
here,"  said  Phil,  thoughtfully. 

"That  is  much  more  than  I  shall  be  able  to  do 
for  you." 


GLORIA  293 

"I  don't  want  anybody  to  do  anything  for  me,  and 
what's  more,  I  won't  have  it.  I  want  to  do  all  the 
doing  myself." 

"Oh,  you  proud  little  sinner!  Well,  there  is 
something  I  want  you  to  do  for  me  right  away. 
You  know  the  path  up  to  the  house.  Will  you  show 
it  to  me?" 

"Yes,  I  will  go  there  with  you,  but  not  right 
away !  I  must  feed  JSneas  and  Dido  first,  auntie  I 
I  know  Uncle  Ralph  slaughtered  an  ox  last  week 
and  sent  a  lot  of  beef.  I  want  a  couple  of  pounds 
of  sirloin  for  my  dogs,  and  I  am  going  to  get  it," 
said  the  elfish  being,  throwing  off  her  cap  and 
hurrying  out  of  the  back  door. 

"Now  that's  the  way,  honey,  she  always  does! 
She's  going  to  feed  them  dogs  with  the  best  meat 
in  the  house!"  complained  the  old  lady. 

"Well,  the  dogs  have  helped  her  to  provide  the 
finest  game,"  said  Gloria. 

"Ah,  I  see,  my  dear,  you  are  going  to  encourage 
that  girl !  I  see  it  quite  plain !  Well,  I  wish  you 
would  take  her  altogether  as  a  seamstress,  or  house 
keeper,  if  it  were  possible  she  could  be  either,  or 
in  any  way  she  could  be  useful  or  entertaining  to 
you ;  for,  indeed,  I  am  anxious  to  get  her  away  from 
this  sort  of  a  wild  life  that  keeps  me  always  in  a 
fever !" 

"Perhaps  I  may  take  you  at  your  word,  Mrs. 
Brent,  if  Phil  is  agreeable;  but  what  would  you  do 
without  her?" 

"Oh,  first-rate!  I  would  take  Marthy,  Aleck's 
youngest  daughter!  She's  older  than  Phil,  and  is 
a  first-rate  spinner  and  weaver  and  seamstress,  and 
house-girl  generally.  I  could  do  a  deal  better  with 
Marthy  than  with  this  Witch-a- windy !" 


294  GLORIA 

As  the  old  lady  spoke,  Phil  came  in  and  said : 

"Well,  I've  given  the  beauties  one  full  meal,  if 
they  never  get  another!  And  now  I  am  ready  to 

go  with  you  to  Gryphynshold,  Mrs. — Mrs. Oh, 

look  here  now — bosh!  You  don't  look  a  bit  more 
of  a  woman  than  I  am  myself,  and  if  I  am  to  be  ex 
pected  to  call  you  Mrs.  What's-her-name,  or  Any 
thing,  our  compact  of  friendship  is  going  to  fall 
through." 

"You  may  call  me  anything  you  wish?"  said 
Gloria. 

"Well,  what  is  your  other  name?"  demanded 
Phil. 

"Maria  da  Gloria  de  la  Vera,"  repeated  the  young 
lady,  with  a  merry  twinkle  of  her  eyes. 

"Mar — ree — ar-— dar Say  it  over  again, 

please,"  exclaimed  Phil,  stretching  her  blue  eyes. 

"Maria  da  Gloria  de  la  Vera,"  repeated  the  young 
lady,  repressing  an  inclination  to  laugh. 

"Der — lar — Vay — rah!  Heaven  and  earth  and 
the  other  place!  I  forget  one  end  before  I  under 
stand  the  other !  That  will  never  do !  Say,  what 
do  they  call  you  at  home,  when  they  are  in  a  hurry, 
you  know,  and  haven't  got  time  to  sit  down  and 
repeat  it  all  over  slowly  at  their  leisure?" 

"They  call  me  Gloria." 

"Glo — ree — ah!  Well,  that  is  three  long  sylla 
bles — a  great  deal  too  long  for  a  short  and  busy 
lifetime !  I  would  rather  call  you  Glo'." 

"Quite  right,  my  dear  Phil.  You  may  call  me 
Glo'." 

"It  suits  you,  too,  for  there's  a  glow  all  around 
you!  Well,  then,  Glo',  I  am  ready  to  escort  you 
to  Gryphynshold,  Ghost  Hall,  Devil's  Den,  for  by 
all  these  names  is  your  manor-house  known,  lady," 


GLORIA  295 

said  the  strange  girl,  as  she  put  on  her  hat  and 
stood  waiting. 

"I  will  be  with  you  in  a  moment,"  exclaimed 
Gloria,  as  she  started  up  and  left  the  room.  She 
ran  up  stairs  to  put  on  her  fur  sack  and  cap,  and 
then  hurried  down  to  join  her  escort. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WITHIN  THE  SHADOW 

Over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 

That  said,  as  plain  as  whispered  in  the  ear, 
"The  space  is  haunted."         THOMAS  HOOD. 

THE  two  young  girls  walked  out  of  the  lodge  and 
found  themselves  in  a  thicket  of  stunted  cedar  trees, 
that,  because  they  were  higher  than  her  head,  pre 
vented  Gloria  from  beholding  one  of  the  most  mag 
nificent  and  stupendous  landscapes  in  the  country. 

A  few  steps  farther,  however,  brought  them  out 
upon  the  private  road  that  led  up  to  the  house. 

It  was  a  road  so  utterly  neglected  that  the  thicket 
of  cedars  on  each  side  nearly  met  in  the  middle,  and 
would  have  prevented  any  other  than  a  foot-pas 
senger  from  passing  along  it. 

This  old  road  led  upward  all  the  way  to  a  thickly- 
wooded  knoll,  on  the  summit  of  which,  quite  buried 
in  pine  and  cedar  trees,  stood  the  old  gray  stone 
building  with  its  heavy  oaken  doors  and  heavy 
oaken-shuttered  window's.  These  were  all  wide 
open  to  the  sun  and  air  now. 


296  GLORIA 

"Were  you  here  when  your  grandmother — I 
mean  your  auntie,  left  the  house ?"  inquired  Gloria, 
as  they  approached  the  stone  portico  leading  to  the 
door. 

"No — oh,  dear,  no!  I  never  lived  here!  I  al 
ways  wanted  to,  though !"  replied  the  girl. 

"Come  and  stay  with  me,  then,  for  a  while,  for  I 
should  like  very  much  to  have  you." 

"And  oh,  how  I  should  like  to  come!" 

"And  you  would  not  be  afraid  of  the  ghosts?" 

"No !  I  don't  believe  in  them !  I  wish  I  could ! 
I  would  rather  see  a  ghost — if  such  a  being  exists 
— than  anything  else  in  the  world!  That  is  the 
reason  why  I  want  to  live  in  this  house — to  watch 
and  wait  all  day  in  lonesome  rooms,  and  lay  awake 
all  night  in  hope  of  seeing  a  ghost.  And  if  there 
is  any  particularly  evil  haunted  room  in  the  house 
— that  is  the  one  I  wish  to  sleep  in." 

"You  shall  be  accommodated,"  said  Gloria,  with 
a  smile,  as  she  went  up  the  moss-grown  steps  to  the 
wide-open  door — a  corresponding  door  at  the  back 
of  the  hall  stood,  also,  wide  open,  giving  a  vista 
through  the  spacious  hall  that  was  paved  with  flag 
stones  of  gray  rock,  and  furnished  with  rude 
benches  of  oak  and  mats  of  cedar  shavings.  A 
broad  staircase  ascended  from  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  And  near  each  side  of  the  foot  of  this  stair 
case,  were  broad,  open  chimneys  in  which  great  fires 
of  brushwood  blazed,  at  once  clearing  the  atmos 
phere  and  heating  the  place.  Yet  neither  the  bril 
liant  sunshine,  pouring  in  through  the  open  doors, 
nor  the  genial  fire  flaming  up  the  chimneys,  could 
dispel  a  certain  air  of  gloom  that  pervaded  the 
house,  depressing  all  who  were  within  it. 

Four  inner  doors — two  on  each  side — were  also 


GLORIA  297 

open,  giving  views  of  large,  lofty  rooms,  all  with 
flag-stone  floors  and  bare  stone  walls,  and  rude, 
plain  oak  chairs  and  tables.  No  carpets,  no  cur 
tains,  no  pictures  varied  the  coarse  monotony  of 
their  aspect. 

David  Lindsay  came  out  from  one  of  the  rooms, 
and  seeing  Gloria,  exclaimed: 

"You  here!  I  had  hoped  to  have  had  things  in 
some  better  order  before  letting  you  see  the  old 
house.  But,  how  are  you?  I  hope  you  slept  well 
and  are  refreshed." 

"Thanks.  Yes,  to  all  your  questions.  And  now 
I  wish  to  go  all  over  the  house/'  said  the  young 
lady. 

"In  its  present  condition  it  is  fit  for  nothing  but 
a  barn  or  store-house !  The  more  I  see  of  it  the  more 
easily  I  can  conceive  of  the  savage  nature  of  the 
men  who  built  and  lived  in  it ;  and  the  more  I  won 
der  at  its  purchase  by  such  a  man  as  the  late  Count 
de  la  Vera !  But  the  mountains  are  supposed  to  be 
rich  in  mineral  wealth  for  any  who  have  money, 
and  enterprise  enough  to  work  them." 

While  the  two  spoke  together,  Mrs.  Brent  and 
one  of  her  nephews  came  in  by  the  front  door. 

"Well,  honey,  you  see  as  soon  as  I  righted  up  the 
house,  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to  come  here  and  see  if  I 
could  be  useful ;  but  I  felt  most  afraid  to  come  up 
that  lonesome  road  by  myself,  and  maybe  I  mightn't 
'a'  got  here,  after  all,  if  young  Jim  hadn't  come 
along  with  a  quarter  of  mutton  for  the  larder,  and 
I  just  made  him  stop  and  bear  me  company,"  she 
said,  as  she  went  to  one  of  the  fires  and  began  to 
warm  her  hands. 

"Are  the  rooms  up  stairs  as  bad  or  worse  than 


298  GLORIA 

these?"  inquired  Gloria,  after  she  had  inspected  all 
on  the  lower  floor. 

"Oh,  they  are  better.  Come  up  and  see  them, 
honey.  The  bed-rooms  are  all  good,  and  the  beds 
are  well  preserved.  You  see,  honey,  the  place  has 
not  been  so  badly  neglected  as  you  might  think. 
I  have  done  something  to  earn  my  salary.  I  have 
come  up  here  in  the  day  once  every  week  with  some 
of  the  niggers,  and  had  the  place  opened  and  aired 
and  fires  made  in  the  bed-rooms  to  dry  the  damp 
ness,"  said  Mrs.  Brent,  as  she  led  the  way  up  the 
broad  staircase. 

"Well,  except  that  these  chambers  are  drier  and 
cleaner,  they  have  not  much  to  boast  of  beyond  the 
rooms  below.  The  whole  house  is  awful  gloomy. 
One  does  not  need  to  see  a  ghost  here.  One  feels 
that  it  is  haunted,"  said  Gloria,  shuddering,  as  she 
completed  her  inspection  of  the  upper  rooms. 

"Yes,  honey,  even  in  the  daytime,  with  the  blessed 
sun  shining  in  at  all  the  open  windows,  and  people 
going  up  and  down.  Then  just  think  what  it  must 
have  been  at  night  with  no  one  but  my  lone  self  up 
here  and  an  old  colored  man  and  woman  in  the 
kitchen  down  stairs — after  what  I  had  seen  and 
heard,  too,"  muttered  the  old  lady,  turning  pale. 

"You?  Is  it  possible,  Mrs.  Brent,  that  there  can 
be  any  foundation  for  these  absurd  stories  circu 
lated  amongst  the  superstitious  colored  people,  and 
that  you  yourself  have  had  any  cause  to  credit 
them?"  inquired  Gloria,  in  great  surprise. 

"Now  see  here,  honey,  I  put  it  to  yourself.  What 
did  you  say  yourself,  just  now?  'One  feels  that  it 
is  haunted.' " 

"Oh,  yes,  by  the  memory  of  all  the  stories  of  mad 


GLORIA  299 

orgies  and  atrocious  deeds  that  we  have  heard  of 
the  furious  old  Gryphyns  who  used  to  live  here, 
and — the  curse  that  fell  upon  them.  The  air  is 
full  of  maledictions!  Haunted  by  these,  Mrs. 
Brent.  Spirits  terrible  enough  to  daunt  the  bravest, 
yet  not  visible  ghosts,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"That  which  I  saw  and  heard,  I  saw  and  heard," 
solemnly  answered  the  housekeeper,  sinking  down 
in  an  old,  green  chintz  covered  arm-chair  on  one 
side  of  the  fire  that  had  been  kindled  in  one  of  the 
bed-rooms. 

"What  was  it,  Mrs.  Brent?"  inquired  Gloria,  her 
curiosity  getting  the  better  of  her  discretion,  as  she 
drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  old  lady  and  seated 
herself. 

"It  was  that  which  drove  me  out  of  this  large, 
once  comfortable  and  convenient  house,  to  take 
refuge  in  that  rough,  deserted  porter's  lodge,  at  the 
gate,  and  has  prevented  me  from  ever  coming  back 
here  except  in  broad  daylight,  and  with  plenty  of 
people  to  keep  me  company." 

"But  what  was  it,  then,  Mrs.  Brent?" 

"Nor  was  that  the  only  time  I  saw  and  heard 
what  was  not  of  this  world!  No,  nor  of  heaven 
either!  Nor  am  I  the  only  one  who  has  seen  and 
heard  things  about  this  place  enough  to  raise  the 
hair  and  curdle  the  blood  of  the  boldest  man  in  the 
country." 

"Oh,  but  you  have  not  told  me  yet  what  has  been 
seen  and  heard  about  this  haunted  spot  to  strike 
such  terror  into  the  hearts  of  men,"  said  Gloria, 
beginning  to  be  infected  by  the  superstitious  fears 
of  her  companion. 

"An  evil  spirit  from  the  pit !  and  those  he  brings 
with,  him !"  muttered  the  housekeeper  in  a  low  voice. 


300  GLORIA 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  Gloria,  in  hushed 
tones. 

"The  last  master  of  Gryphynshold — old  Dyvyd 
Gryphyn !  He  whose  life  was  the  wickedest  of  all 
the  wicked  ones  that  had  gone  before  him !  He  who 
turned  his  young  wife,  or  sweetheart — no  one 
knows  which  she  was — out  of  doors  in  the  middle 
of  a  bitter  cold  January  night  to  perish  of  cold, 
as  she  did  on  the  mountain  side !  He  who  that  next 
day  was  killed  in  a  wicked  duel,  and  whose  body 
lies  buried  in  the  unconsecrated  earth  of  the  family 
burial  ground — for  they  were  all  infidels,  and 
wouldn't  let  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  come  on  the 
premises.  He  it  is  whose  spirit  cannot  rest  in  the 
grave,  or  tarry  even  with  his  fellow-devils  in  the 
pit,  but  walks  continually  up  and  down  through 
house  and  thicket  in  the  darkness  of  the  darkest 
hours  in  the  night!" 

"And  you  have  seen  him?"  questioned  Gloria, 
with  incredulous  astonishment. 

"I  was  the  first  to  see  and  hear  him  after  his 
being  killed  in  the  duel.  It  was  no  dream,  ma'am, 
it  was  no  delusion,  though  you  look  as  if  you 
thought  so !  It  was  late  at  night — the  night  after 
that  poor  young  creature  had  been  torn  from  her 
bed  and  turned  out  to  die  of  cold  on  the  mountain. 
It  was  a  still,  cold,  freezing  night — one  of  those 
silent,  bitter  winter  nights  when  the  frost  seems 
to  steal  into  the  very  marrow  of  your  bones.  I  was 
sitting  by  the  big  fire  in  the  front  hall,  waiting  for 
the  master  to  come  home  so  that  I  could  let  him  in. 
I  had  sent  all  the  servants  to  bed,  because  they 
were  tired  with  their  work,  poor  things!  and,  be 
sides,  they  would  have  to  get  up  so  early  in  the 
morning  that  they  could  not  afford  to  lose  their 


GLORIA  301 

rest.  Well,  I  was  sitting  there  before  the  fire,  with 
my  knees  roasting  and  my  back  freezing,  and  not 
a  sound  to  be  heard  all  over  the  house,  not  even  a 
cricket  or  a  mouse.  I  don't  know  which  was  the 
most  awful,  the  stillness  or  the  cold.  Sud 
denly " 

"Well,  suddenly  what?"  eagerly  demanded 
Gloria,  seeing  that  the  old  lady  paused  longer  than 
necessar}^. 

"Suddenly  there  came  on  the  stillness  a  violent 
rush,  as  of  a  great  gust  of  wind,  that  forced  the 
front  door  open.  I  jumped  up  in  a  panic,  but 
dropped  down  again;  for  there  stood  the  master, 
pale  as  a  corpse,  with  a  ghastly  wound  on  his 
temple,  from  which  the  blood  was  slowly  trickling 
down  his  cheek.  He  did  not  stop  a  moment,  but 
glaring  at  me,  strode  down  the  hall,  and  up  the 
staircase,  and  disappeared  at  the  top." 

"Good  Heavens !" 

"I  was  a  strong  woman  at  that  time,  but  I  came 
near  swooning,  for  I  thought  it  was  the  master 
himself  in  the  flesh,  and  that  he  had  got  his  death- 
wound  somehow.  But  soon  rallying  myself,  I  got 
up  and  shut  the  front  door,  and  bolted  and  barred 
it.  The  night  was  now  as  still  and  breathless  as  it 
had  been  before  Dyvyd  Gryphyn  rushed  in  with 
that  furious  wind.  After  I  had  fastened  the  door 
I  went  up  to  the  room  over  the  kitchen  in  the  back 
building,  and  waked  up  old  Tubal,  who  was  then 
the  only  man-servant  about  the  house.. 

"  'Tubal/  I  said,  'rise  and  dress  quickly.  Your 
master  has  just  come  home,  dangerously  wounded.' 
Perhaps  I  ought  then  to  have  gone  directly  to  the 
assistance  of  the  supposed  wounded  man,  but,  some 
how,  I  felt  afraid  to  go  alone.  Old  Tubal,  who  had 


302  GLORIA 

been  too  much  accustomed  to  scenes  of  violence  and 
their  results,  in  that  house,  to  be  very  much  shocked 
at  what  I  told  him,  merely  grunted  forth : 

"  'It's  nothing  more'n  I  expected/  and  then  has 
tened  to  dress  himself  and  follow  me  to  his  master's 
room.  Well,  when  we  got  there " 

"Yes!  when  you  got  there!"  eagerly  exclaimed 
Gloria,  who  would  hardly  let  the  old  lady  pause 
for  breath. 

"There  was  no  master  to  be  seen !  No  sign  of  a 
master.  We  looked  through  some  of  the  nearer 
rooms,  but  without  finding  him.  Then  we  sat  down 
in  his  room  and  waited,  thinking  that  he  might 
have  gone  somewhere  about  the  house,  and  would 
be  back  soon.  We  waited  and  waited,  until  at 
length  I  became  alarmed;  for  I  thought  he  might 
have  fainted  from  loss  of  blood  in  some  other  part 
of  the  house.  Then  old  Tubal  and  myself  recom 
menced  our  search  and  went  into  every  room,  closet 
and  passage  of  the  house  from  the  attic  to  the 
cellar,  but  without  finding  any  trace  of  Dyvyd 
Gryphyn." 

"And  was  he  never  found?"  inquired  Gloria,  in 
a  tone  of  awe. 

"Yes,  honey,  his  body  had  been  found  twenty 
miles  away,  hours  before  his  spirit  appeared  to  me 
in  the  hall.  At  sunrise  the  next  morning,  the  men 
who  had  found  it  on  the  duelling  ground  the  other 
side  of  Wolfs  Gap,  arrived  with  it  at  the  hall  here. 
There  was  an  inquest,  of  course,  and  then  the  truth 
came  out." 

"What  was  the  truth?" 

"Why,  it  seems  that  on  the  occasion  of  the  last 
feast  that  Dyvyd  Gryphyn  held  here  when  he  was 
drunker  than  usual,  he  sent  for  his  young  wife,  and 


GLORIA  303 

made  her  come  down  and  sing  for  his  wild  com 
panions.  She  had  a  beautiful  voice.  They  were 
all  mad  that  night.  They  shocked  and  terrified  the 
poor  thing  so  that  near  morning  she  escaped  and 
fled  from  them,  and  locked  herself  up  in  her  room 
in  a  state  bordering  upon  distraction.7' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  have  heard  that  story  before." 

"Well,  when  the  man  came  to  his  senses  the  next 
day,  he  rode  away  with  his  guests  as  far  as  Wolfs 
Gap,  where  they  all  stopped  to  rest  and  drink. 
They  spoke  rudely  of  Gryphyrfs  hidden  beauty,  and 
one  man — a  Colonel  Murdockson — boasted  of  signs 
and  signals  that  the  lady  had  given  him  the  night 
before,  to  the  effect  that  she  was  ready  to  run  away 
with  him." 

"Revolting!" 

"It  was  as  false  as  the  father  of  lies !  Yet  Dyvyd 
Gryphyn,  with  the  furious  jealousy  of  his  race,  be 
lieved  the  slander.  He  challenged  Murdockson  on 
the  spot,  and  the  meeting  was  arranged  to  take 
place  the  next  afternoon  in  the  hollow  below  Wolf's 
Gap." 

Gloria  shuddered. 

"The  meeting  was  to  be  without  seconds,  and  it 
was  only  to  end  in  the  death  of  one  or  both.  When 
all  was  settled,  Dyvyd  Gryphyn  set  out  to  return 
home,  arrived  only  at  midnight,  strode  to  his  wife's 
chamber,  dragged  her  out  of  bed  and  thrust  her 
out  in  the  midnight  storm  to  perish  on  the  moun 
tains,  as  she  did,  for  her  body  was  also  found — 
though,  as  the  birds  of  prey  had  been  the  first  to 
discover  it,  it  was  hardly  recognizable." 

"I  have  heard  that,  too!"  shuddered  Gloria. 

"I  only  refer  to  that  in  its  connection  with  the 
duel.  The  next  morning  he  left  home  to  fight  it, 


304  GLORIA 

although  we,  at  Gryphynshold,  had  no  suspicion 
of  what  was  afoot.  And  that  night  I  waited  for 
him  as  usual  when — his  spectre  came.  After  the 
inquest,  and  the  verdict  in  accordance  with  the 
facts,  the  body  of  Dyvyd  Gryphyn  was  buried  out 
yonder,  as  I  told  you.  But  his  spectre  still  haunts 
the  place." 

"What  became  of  Murdockson?" 

"He  left  the  neighborhood  after  the  duel,  and  has 
never  been  heard  of  since.  You  see,  ma'am,  there 
were  circumstances  of  horrible  atrocity  connected 
with  that  affair,  which  I  have  not  had  the  courage 
to  tell  you  yet.  I  may  some  time.  Ah !  here  comes 
Mr.  Lindsay." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WHAT  PHILIPPA  SAW 

A  horrid  spectre  rises  to  my  sight, 
Before  my  face,  plain  and  palpable. 

JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

DAVTD  LINDSAY  entered  the  room,  with  a  graver 
air  than  usual  overshadowing  his  frank  coun 
tenance. 

Mrs.  Brent  arose  and  offered  him  her  own  chair 
by  the  fire. 

With  a  gesture,  he  silently  thanked  her,  and 
signed  that  she  should  resume  her  seat,  while  he 
drew  another  to  the  hearth  for  himself,  saying,  as 
he  sank  into  it : 

"Well,  I  have  been  all  over  this  house,  from 
cellar  to  attic,  and  I  must  repeat  now  from  knowl- 


GLORIA  305 

edge  what  I  said  at  first  from  suspicion,  that  this 
place  is  no  home  for  any  lady,  and  therefore  none 
for  you." 

"Why?"  inquired  Gloria,  with  provoking  cool 
ness. 

"  'Why?'  My  dear  lady,  the  answer  is  in  every 
thing  around  you — in  the  desolation,  the  drear 
iness,  the  solitude " 

"I  do  not  want  company,"  interrupted  Gloria. 

"In  its  remoteness  from  all  the  life  of  the 
world " 

"And  I  do  want  to  be  very  quiet,"  added  Gloria. 

"In  its  dilapidation  and  dampness." 

"Good  fires  can  rectify  the  one  immediately,  and 
good  workmen  the  other  in  due  time." 

"Finally,  in  the  evil  reputation  of  the  place," 
said  the  young  man,  solemnly. 

"Now,  David  Lindsay,  if  you  mean  the  rumors 
about  the  house  being  haunted,  that  is  just  what 
attracts  me  to  it !"  said  Gloria,  archly. 

"It  is  not  that  idle  rumor  to  which  I  refer.  A 
place  that  has  been  little  better  than  a  stronghold 
of  godless  revellers,  gamblers,  drunkards,  duellists, 
murderers,  if  all  be  true  that  is  told  of  them,  is  no 
proper  home  for  any  lady,  not  to  say  you.  It  is 
only  fit  to  be  turned  into  a  smelting-furnace  for  the 
treasures  of  iron  ore  said  to  be  hidden  in  the 
depths  of  these  mountains,"  gravely  concluded  the 
young  man. 

"Oh,  then  you  don't  believe  that  the  house  is 
haunted,"  said  Gloria,  good-humoredly. 

"It  is  haunted  by  the  association  of  atrocious 
crimes  and  bitter  sufferings,  if  by  no  other  ghosts. 
Lady  dear,  I  wish  you  would  not  think  of  living 
here,"  he  pleaded. 


306  GLORIA 

"The  poor  old  place  is  in  no  way  to  blame  for  the 
evil  lives  of  the  monsters  who  once  lived  here  and 
have  now  gone  to  where  they  belong — to  Pande 
monium.  I  shall  stay  here,  David  Lindsay,  until 
I  have  become  familiar  with  every  part  of  the 
house,  and  acquainted  with  every  part  of  the  moun 
tain.  If  I  grow  weary  of  the  place  I  shall  take 
Phil  Cummings  for  a  companion  and  one  of  her 
old  uncles  for  an  escort,  and  return  to  Washing 
ton." 

As  Gloria  said  this,  the  housekeeper,  who  sat  be 
tween  the  young  pair,  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  with  the  bluntness  that  belonged  to  her  nature 
and  circumstances,  exclaimed: 

"Why,  surely,  if  you  go,  Mr.  Lindsay  must  escort 
you  himself." 

"Mr.  Lindsay  has  business  that  will  compel  his 
return  North  as  soon  as  he  sees  me  settled  in  my 
home,"  coldly  replied  Gloria. 

David  Lindsay's  fine  face  flushed,  and  then  grew 
pale. 

"Well,  I  suppose,  such  a  big  estate  as  yours, 
ma'am — for  I  am  told  that  Gryphynshold  is  but  a 
small  portion  of  it,  and  that  the  bulk  of  it  is  in 
Maryland — will  require  a  deal  of  attention,  not  to 
say  what  the  gentleman's  own  affairs  may  call  for ; 
but  one  would  think  you  would  have  settled  all 
that  before  you  came  down  here,  so  as  not  to  be 
separated  so  soon  again.  It  seems  such  a  pity," 
said  the  housekeeper,  sympathetically. 

Gloria  did  not  reply,  and  David  Lindsay  could 
not. 

"Well,  I  didn't  sit  down  here  to  idle  away  my 
time.  I  must  go  to  the  linen  room  and  see  to  get 
ting  out  the  things  to  make  up  the  beds — though, 


GLORIA  307 

dear  me,  when  I  come  to  think  of  how  long  they 
have  been  packed  away  in  the  cedar  chests,  I  don't 
believe  they  will  be  fit  for  use,  for  yellowness  and 
closeness,"  said  the  housekeeper,  getting  up  to  leave 
the  room. 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Gloria,  rising  to  fol 
low  Mrs.  Brent,  for  her  sensitive  conscience  and 
sympathetic  spirit  made  her  dread  a  tete-a-tete  with 
David  Lindsay  almost  as  much  as  she  had  ever 
dreaded  one  with  her  uncle;  not  that  she  thought, 
for  one  instant,  that  the  pure-hearted  and  noble- 
minded  young  fisherman  would  ever,  under  any 
temptation,  or  for  any  reason,  break  his  word  to 
her,  or  take  the  slightest  unfair  advantage  of  his 
position  towards  her. 

She  knew  that  he  never  would  do  that.  She 
knew  also  that  he  would  never  plead  for  the  love 
that  she  was  unwilling  to  give  him;  that  he  would 
never  invoke  her  pity  by  any  look  or  tone  expres 
sive  of  the  disappointment  and  humiliation,  the 
sorrow  and  distress  he  really  suffered,  and  which 
she  intuitively  knew  that  he  suffered.  No,  but  she 
was  afraid  of  herself.  She  could  trust  David  Lind 
say  utterly,  but  she  could  not  trust  herself. 

She  had  loved  David  Lindsay  from  their  child 
hood  up;  but  she  had  never  been  "in  love"  with 
him,  or  with  any  one,  and  she  had  never  wished 
to  marry  him,  or  any  other;  but  driven  by  the 
very  spite  and  stress  of  fate,  she  had  married  him, 
and  immediately  afterwards  realized  what  a  mad, 
fatal,  irreparable  error  she  had  committed  in  unit 
ing  her  fate  to  that  of  one  so  utterly  unfitted  by 
birth,  position  and  education  to  be  her  husband! 

Yet  there  were  moments  now  when  the  memory 
of  their  lifelong,  innocent,  childish  affection  for 


308  GLORIA 

each  other  melted  her  heart  to  tears ;  when  the  con 
templation  of  his  magnanimity  filled  her  mind  with 
admiration;  when  all  that  was  best  in  her  own 
nature  bridged  the  gulf  between  them,  and  almost 
impelled  her  hands  and  lips  and  voice  to  go  where 
her  spirit  had  gone  before. 

She  was  afraid  that  in  some  such  moments  as 
this  she  should  cast  her  arms  around  the  neck  of 
her  young  husband,  and  press  her  lips  to  his  and 
say: 

"You  saved  me  once  from  death,  and  once  from 
worse  than  that.  You  love  me  more  than  I  deserve. 
You  merit  all  my  love.  I  am  your  wife.  Do  not 
leave  me." 

She  was  in  danger  of  saying  this  every  hour — 
and  she  did  not  wish  to  say  it. 

Now  she  hurried  after  the  old  housekeeper,  who 
led  the  way  to  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  fitted 
up  with  shelves  above  and  drawers  below,  all 
around  the  walls.  These  were,  however,  empty,  and 
two  large  cedar  chests  that  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  seemed  to  contain  all  the  household  linen. 

Mrs.  Brent  drew  a  key  from  her  pocket  and  un 
locked  one  of  the  chests,  from  which  a  heavy  aro 
matic  odor  of  sweet  herbs  and  spices  arose. 

"I  used  to  take  out  these  things  and  air  them, 
every  summer,  but  of  late  years,  seeing  that  they 
never  seemed  to  come  into  any  use,  I  gave  up  doing 
that,  and  just  contented  myself  with  putting  more 
dried  lavender  and  basil  in  them  every  fall,"  she 
said,  as  she  lifted  out  folded  sheets,  fine  as  cambric, 
yellow  as  saffron,  and  filled  with  the  odor  of  sweet 
herbs. 

"It  is  no  use,  honey,"  continued  the  housekeeper, 
"these  here  things  are  not  fit  to  be  used.  They  will 


GLORIA  309 

have  to  be  washed  and  bleached  first.  I  shall  hare 
to  lend  you  some  of  mine.  They  are  not  so  fine  as 
these,  but  they  are  a  deal  whiter,  so  perhaps  you 
will  excuse  them." 

"I  shall  be  very  thankful  for  the  loan  of  them, 
Mrs.  Brent,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"Indeed  you  are  welcome,  my  dear,"  replied  the 
housekeeper,  who  was  still  looking  over  the  con 
tents  of  the  cedar  chest. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Brent,  I  wish  to  ask  you — have  you 
never  slept  in  this  house  since  the  night  that — that 
Dyvyd  Gryphyn  was  killed?" 

"And  his  ghost  appeared  to  us  here?  No,  ma'am. 
Never  since  that  night  have  I  slept  in  this  house. 
The  officers  of  the  law  occupied  it  the  next  day,  and 
after  the  inquest  the  undertaker  had  possession 
until  the  funeral.  While  that  was  going  on  T  slept 
at  my  brother's  house.  Then  I  had  the  furniture 
of  my  part  of  the  house  moved  down  to  the  gate 
lodge,  which  was  empty  at  that  time,  and  I  have 
lived  there  ever  since;  only,  as  I  told  you  before, 
coming  up  here,  in  broad  daylight,  with  a  lot  of  the 
colored  people  to  keep  me  in  courage,  while  I  had 
the  house  opened  and  aired.  This  I  have  done  faith 
fully  every  week  all  the  year  round,  ever  since  the 
last  master's  dreadful  death." 

"And  you  have  never  seen  anything  to  recall  the 
horrors  of  that  night?" 

"Not  much,  ma'am,  because  I  have  always  visited 
it  in  broad  daylight,  as  I  have  told  you." 

"Well,  now  that  the  place  is  thrown  open  to  the 
sun  and  air,  and  Mr.  Lindsay  and  myself  are  here 
to  take  possession,  and  your  niece  Philippa  and  a 
number  of  the  colored  servants,  whom  we  shall 
bring  in,  you  will  not  be  afraid  to  join  us?" 


310  GLORIA 

"You  mean  to  come  back  and  live  here?"  inquired 
the  housekeeper,  somewhat  startled. 

"Yes,  to  come  and  live  here.  I  shall  want  a 
housekeeper  in  the  house  to  look  after  the  servants. 
I  shall  also  need  a  matron,  as  a  protector  for  my 
self  during  the  absence  of  Mr.  Lindsay ;  or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  I  should  say,  after  the  departure 
of  Mr.  Lindsay.  I  would  give  you  for  your  sleep 
ing-room,  one  of  the  best  bed-chambers  in  the  house, 
the  next  to  my  own,  for  company,  and  your  niece 
could  sleep  with  you  for  closer  company.  Come, 
what  do  you  say?" 

"Oh,  ma'am,  I  know  not  what  to  say.  Of  course, 
I  know  that  I  must  do  one  thing  or  the  other.  As 
long  as  you  need  a  housekeeper  in  the  house,  I  must 
either  come  and  live  here  or  else  I  must  give  up 
my  situation  and  let  some  other  woman  take  it  who 
would  come  and  live  in  the  house.  I  have  held  the 
situation  of  housekeeper  at  Gryphynshold  for 
twenty-five  years,  and  I  don't  like  to  give  up  a  post 
that  I  expected  to  live  and  die  in ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  am  afeared  to  sleep  in  this  house." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Brent,"  said  Gloria,  with  more  firm 
ness  than  she  had  ever  given  herself  credit  for  pos 
sessing,  "I  do  not  wish  to  hurry  you.  Take  your 
time  to  decide  what  you  will  do;  but  let  me  know 
your  answer  before  Mr.  Lindsay  goes  away;  for  it 
will  be  necessary  for  me  to  find  some  matronly  pro 
tection  before  his  departure." 

"And  dear  me,  that  will  be  so  soon,"  said  the 
housekeeper. 

"Yes;  but  listen.  Your  years  of  faithful  service 
will  not  be  forgotten.  If  you  decide  to  leave  me  you 
shall  have  six  months'  wages  in  advance;  but  if  you 


GLORIA  311 

decide  to  stay  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world  that 
I  can  do  to  make  you  happy." 

"My  dear  young  lady,  would  you  let  me  try  it  a 
little  while  before  deciding?"  inquired  the  old 
housekeeper. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Gloria. 

"Let  me  try  if  I  can  stay  here.  If  nothing  hap 
pens,  such  as  happened  on  that  horrible  night,  why, 
I  might  stay  and  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  here;  but 
if  anything  of  that  sort  should  come  again,  if  it 
shouldn't  frighten  me  to  death  on  the  spot,  it  would, 
at  least,  scare  me  away  from  the  house  forever." 

"Such  a  night  of  horror  is  not  likely  to  return  in 
our  lifetime.  I  accept  your  terms,  Mrs.  Brerit,  and 
I  am  very  glad  to  do  so.  I  should  dislike  to  lose 
you." 

"Thanky,  honey;  so  should  I,"  replied  the  old 
woman,  rather  obscurely.  Then:  "When  would 
you  like  me  to  come  in,  ma'am?"  she  inquired. 

"As  soon  as  you  possibly  can." 

"Well,  I  think  I  can  come  to-day.  As  you  were 
so  kind  as  to  say  that  you  would  give  me  a  room 
next  to  your  own,  I  shall  not  need  to  move  the  fur 
niture  from  the  lodge-house,  as  these  rooms  are 
already  furnished.  Now,  honey,  I'll  go  down  and 
see  to  preparing  the  dinner." 

"Thanks,  and — please  send  your  niece  up  to  me, 
Mrs.  Brent,"  said  Gloria,  who  still  shrank  from  a 
tete-a-tete  with  David  Lindsay. 

Philippa  came  dancing  up  stairs  and  into  the 
room. 

"There's  an  army  in  the  old  house,  and  I  am 
afraid  they'll  rout  the  ghosts!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Just  think  of  it !  They  have  all  the  field  negroes 
— who  have  not  much  to  do  outside  at  this  season 


312  GLORIA 

of  the  year,  you  know — in  the  house,  busy  scrub 
bing,  scouring,  mopping,  sweeping,  dusting  and 
what  not" 

"Then  they  will  get  through  all  the  sooner,  for 
which  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  said  Gloria. 

"Oh,  they  will  get  through  cleaning  to-night! 
And  then  we  shall  have  peace  for  some  time;  for 
they  can't  begin  any  repairs  until  the  spring,  you 
know." 

"I  don't  want  any  repairs.  The  house  is  wind 
and  water  proof,  and  that  is  all  that  is  necessary 
besides  cleanliness.  Fresh  paint  and  new  wall 
paper  would  utterly  spoil  it." 

"I  think  this  inroad  of  mops  and  brooms  and 
scrubbing-brushes  has  spoiled  it  already.  Oh,  the 
poor  ghosts!  I  am  so  sorry  for  the  ghosts.  Yes, 
and  for  myself,  too.  I  was  so  in  hopes  of  seeing 
a  ghost,"  sighed  Philippa,  with  a  look  of  downright 
disappointment. 

"Why  should  you  wish  to  see  a  ghost,  if  such  a 
being  ever  exists?"  inquired  Gloria. 

"Why,  oh,  why?  Because  the  apparition  of  a  real 
ghost  would  be  proof  positive  of  the  life  after 
death,"  said  Philippa,  quite  seriously. 

"But  your  Christian  faith  should  assure  you  of 
that,  if  you  have  faith." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  faith,  of  course  I  have  faith. 
Why,  I  have  been  confirmed,  child,  so  of  course 
I  have  faith ;  but  what  I  want  is  certainty.  I  want 
to  see  a  ghost  who  can  tell  me  all  about  it.  There 
is  nothing  in  this  hum-drum  world  I  should  like  so 
well  as  a  good,  comfortable,  sitting  down,  leisurely 
gossip  with  a  real  ghost !  Or  a  midnight  visit  from 
a  departed  spirit,  who  would  take  a  chair  at  my 


GLORIA 

bedside  and  answer  all  my  questions,"  said 
Philippa;  and  she  looked  as  if  she  meant  it. 

"You  would  be  frightened  out  of  your  wits !"  ex 
claimed  Gloria. 

"Not  I!  What  would  I  have  to  fear?  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  ghost  hurting  anybody?  Of  all  the  ab 
surd  cowardice,  I  think  the  fear  of  ghosts  must  be 
the  weakest!  Why,  if  the  very  wickedest  old 
Gryphyn  that  ever  killed  and  ate  his  grandmother, 
was  to  appear  to  me  and  try  to  bulldoze  me,  all  I 
would  say  would  be — 'Ah  ha,  old  rooster!  Your 
comb  is  cut  now!  Flesh  and  blood  have  no  longer 
anything  to  fear  from  you!  Clear  out,  or  I  will 
throw  my  prayer-book  at  your  head' — for  of  course 
you  know  I  wouldn't  care  about  hearing  what  he 
could  tell  me  of  the  other  world!  But,  oh  dear! 
there  is  not  the  slightest  probability  of  interviewing 
a  spirit,  good  or  evil,  now.  These  commonplace,  un 
imaginative  sweepers,  and  dusters,  and  moppers, 

and  scrubbers  have  exorcised  them  all — unless 

Come  with  me,  Madame  Gloria.  I  will  show  you 
a  place  that  they  haven't  invaded  yet,  and  if  that 
place  is  not  consecrated  or  cursed  to  the  use  of 
ghosts,  I'll  give  them  up,"  said  Philippa,  suddenly 
rising. 

Gloria,  carried  away  by  the  impetuosity  of  her 
companion,  arose  and  followed  her. 

Philippa  led  the  way  down  stairs  and  down  the 
main  hall  to  a  side  door  that  opened  into  a  long, 
dark,  narrow  passage  leading  through  an  ell  of  the 
building. 

At  the  end  of  this  she  opened  another  door  lead 
ing  down  a  deep  and  narrow  flight  of  stairs  to  a 
dark  cellar. 

At  the  foot  of  these  stairs  she  stopped  and  said : 


GLORIA 

"Wait.  I  brought  a  piece  of  candle  with  me  and 
a  match.  We  must  have  a  light  before  we  go  a  step 
farther." 

And  while  Gloria  stood  there,  Philippa  snapped 
a  match  and  lighted  the  end  of  the  tallow  candle, 
which,  however,  only  showed  a  small  ray  in  the 
midst  of  the  deep  darkness. 

They  stepped  down  now  upon  the  flagstone  floor 
of  the  cellar,  which  seemed  quite  dry.  Groping 
along  with  their  feeble  light,  they  explored  the 
walls,  which  were  arched  and  divided  into  bins  and 
niches — some  of  them  with  rusty  iron  doors — places 
which  made  the  two  girls  shudder. 

In  one  corner  of  this  place  they  found  a  door 
which,  when  they  opened  it,  revealed,  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  candle,  a  ladder  leading  down  to  a  sub 
terranean  room  below  the  cellar. 

"Oh,  look  here!"  whispered  Philippa.  "Look 
here!  In  the  deepest  deep  a  deeper  deep!" 

"Oh,  come  away!  Come  away!  Come  away 
directly  and  shut  the  door!  There  is  a  dreadful 
air  arises  from  that  place!"  exclaimed  Gloria, 
shrinking  back. 

"  'Come  away,'  indeed !  Not  much !  I  am  going 
down  these  stairs  to  see  what  is  at  the  bottom.  You 
can  stay  here  until  I  come  back,  but  I  cannot  leave 
you  the  candle,  you  know,"  obstinately  replied  the 
stubborn  girl. 

In  vain  Gloria  sought  to  dissuade  her  from  her 
purpose.  She  was  as  stubborn  and  intractable  as 
a  young  mule,  and  she  began  to  go  down  the  ladder. 

Gloria,  seeing  her  so  determined,  had  no  other 
alternative  but  to  follow  her  willful  guide. 

A  foul  air,  impregnated  with  must  and  mould 
and  dampness,  met  them.  They  could  scarcely 


GLORIA  315 

breathe,  the  candle  could  scarcely  burn  in  the  im 
pure,  oppressive  atmosphere. 

"Oh,  if  you  would  only  not  persist,"  moaned 
Gloria,  as  holding  on  to  the  sides  of  the  ladder,  she 
groped  her  way  down  after  her  conductor. 

"But  I  must  persist,"  replied  Philippa,  who  had 
now  reached  the  bottom. 

With  some  danger  and  difficulty  Gloria  de 
scended  the  ladder  and  stood  by  her  side. 

The  feeble  rays  of  the  candle  showed  but  a  small 
circle  of  light  just  around  them.  All  beyond  was 
utter  darkness. 

Suddenly  Gloria  grasped  the  arm  of  her  com 
panion  and  shuddered. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Philippa. 

"Listen !" 

"What?" 

"Don't  you  hear  something?" 

"No!" 

"Oh,  listen!    There  it  is  again!" 

"What,  I  say?" 

"That  moaning,  gurgling  sound,  as  of  some  one 
strangling  and  groaning!" 

"Oh,  that  is  the  sound  of  some  subterranean, 
pent-up  stream.  I  have  found  such  in  the  caves 
under  these  mountains,  and  I  have  heard  that  the 
foundations  of  this  house  communicate  with  a 
chain  of  caverns  opening  from  one  into  another 
under  the  whole  breadth  of  the  mountain  base,  and 
more  than  one  stream  of  water  must  traverse 
them,"  said  Philippa. 

"Then  this  is  a  very  dangerous  place!  This  is 
far  down  under  the  deepest  foundations  of  the 
house,  and  in  this  utter  darkness  we  might  step  into 
a  stream  of  water,  and  be  swept  away  and  drowned. 


316  GLORIA 

And  oh!  of  all  the  gates  that  lead  into  the  other 
life,  a  black  water  gate  must  be  the  most  appalling ! 
Do  come  back,  Philippa!" 

"I  cannot!  Something  draws  me  on!  But  you 
keep  behind  me.  I  will  go  on  before.  If  I  should 
disappear,  either  down  into  a  cave  or  into  a  sub 
terranean  stream,  do  you  turn  and  go  back  to  the 
upper  world  by  the  way  you  came." 

"This  is  foolish,  foolhardy,  wicked,  Philippa," 

"I  know  it  is,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  Something 
draws  me  on,  I  tell  you!"  exclaimed  the  willful 
creature.  And  at  the  same  moment  she  stumbled, 
recovered  herself,  and  held  the  candle  close  to  the 
ground  to  see  what  the  obstacle  had  been. 

"Oh,  gracious  Heaven,  what  is  this?"  cried 
Philippa,  in  a  tone  of  sickening  horror,  as  she  re 
coiled  from  the  object. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  Gloria,  in  a  frightened 
voice. 

"Look!     Look!"  gasped  Philippa. 

Gloria  caught  the  candle  from  the  girl's  shaking 
hand,  held  it  down,  peered  into  the  obscurity,  and 
instantly  sprang  back  with  a  piercing  shriek. 

They  were  on  the  very  brink  of  a  black  torrent 
that  rushed  along  through  the  depths  of  a  deep  and 
yawning  gulch.  Another  moment — another  step, 
and  they  must  have  plunged  down  the  precipice 
into  the  dark  water  of  that  buried  river,  and  been 
whirled  on  to  destruction  in  the  darkest  depths  of 
the  abyss. 

But  it  was  not  even  that  impending  doom  that 
had  appalled  them! 

It  was  the  dire  object  that  rose  from  the  earth  on 
the  bank  of  the  chasm! 

For  a  moment  they  stood  clinging  together,  half 


GLORIA  317 

petrified,  and  then,  without  a  word,  turned  and  fled 
to  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and  climbed  it  with, 
tumultuous  haste.  On  reaching  the  cellar  over  this 
cavern,  they  hurried  across  it  to  the  door  leading 
up  stairs  to  the  back  building  communicating  with 
the  house. 

Pale,  breathless,  trembling,  they  at  length  found 
themselves  in  the  great  hall,  with  its  doors  and 
windows  open  to  the  wholesome  sun  and  air,  and 
cheerful  wood  fires  burning  in  the  broad  fire 
places. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HORROR 

This  chamber  is  the  ghostly ! 


HOOD. 


"On,  Madame  Gloria !  I've  done  bragging !  I'll 
never  brag  any  more!  I  did  pray  to  my  guardian 
angel  if  he'd  save  my  life  and  reason  until  I  could 
get  out  of  that  place  I  would  never  brag  any  more!" 
exclaimed  Philippa,  with  a  hysterical  laugh,  as  she 
dropped  on  one  of  the  rude  oak  benches  in  the  hall. 

"Oh,  Philippa,  don't  speak  so  lightly  of  that 

awful "  cried  Gloria,  suddenly  stopping  and 

covering  her  pallid  face  with  both  hands,  as  she,  too, 
sank  upon  a  seat. 

"Lightly?  Gracious  Heaven!  I  don't  speak 
lightly!  All  my  boasted  courage  has  come  out  in 
a  cold  sweat  that  trickles  like  ice  water  all  down 
my  spine!  Madame  Gloria,  I  would  rather  have 
seen  the  blackest  evil  spirit  from  the  abyss,  all 
alone  at  midnight,  than  that  horrid Ugh-h-h !" 


318  GLORIA 

"Philippa!  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  speak  of  it 
now,  or  evermore!  You  are  a  brave  girl " 

"I  will  never  say  so  after  this.  I'm  conquered 
quite !"  shuddered  the  willful  creature. 

"You  have  seen  what  would  have  shaken  the 
nerves  of  the  boldest  man ;  it  is  no  wonder  that  you 
are  overcome  as  well  as  myself.  But,  Philippa,  I 
beg  you,  for  my  sake,  never  mention  to  a  human 
being  what  we  have  seen  below.  If  it  were  once 
known  what  our  eyes  have  beheld — what  rises  from 
the  brink  of  that  subterranean  black  river — the 
horror  below  the  foundation  of  these  walls — no  liv 
ing  being  could  be  induced  to  remain  in  the  house 
with  us." 

"Shall  you  remain?"  whispered  Philippa. 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  why?" 

"Because  I  said  I  would,  and  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  retract.  I  will  not  be  ejected,  even  by 

that  appalling Oh !  let  us  not  speak  of  it,  even 

to  each  other.  And  never,  never  to  any  one  else. 
Your  aunt  would  never  come  near  the  house,  even 
by  day,  if  she  knew  of  that  dire  presence  below, 
and  I  wish  her  to  remain  with  us,  Philippa.  I  say 
'us,'  because  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  stay  with  me." 

"Yes,  I  will  stay  and  I  will  keep  the  secret," 
whispered  the  girl. 

"The  cellar  and  the  horrible  cave  below  it,  with 
the  black  river,  have  long  been  disused,  if  ever, 
indeed,  they  were  used  at  all.  I  will  have  the  two 
doors  at  the  head  of  the  two  flights  of  stairs  lead 
ing  dow^  to  the  abyss  nailed  up  to-day.  The  foul 
air  from  below  will  be  excuse  enough  for  that." 

"There  be  some  that  cannot  be  kept  out  by  locks, 
or  bolts,  or  bars,  or  nailed-up  doors — no,  nor  even 


GLORIA  319 

by  tons  of  stone  and  earth!  And  of  such  was  what 
we  saw !" 

"Oh,  hush,  hush,  hush !  Why  do  you  dwell  upon 
that?  Oh,  that  we  both  could  drink  of  the  waters 
of  Lethe  and  forget  it!"  whispered  Gloria,  as  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  shuddered. 

At  this  moment  a  lucky  interruption  ended  their 
dismal  conversation. 

Mrs.  Brent  came  walking  briskly  from  one  of  the 
side  rooms,  saying : 

"Come,  now,  ma'am,  dinner  is  ready — not  such  a 
dinner  as  I  hope  to  set  before  you  every  day  for  the 
future,  but  just  such  a  one  as  I  could  get  up  under 
the  circumstances  to-day." 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  delicious  and  just 
what  we  like.  As  for  me,  I  prefer  what  are  called 
'picked  up  dinners' — simple  little  dishes.  The 
sight  of  big  joints  takes  away  my  appetite,"  said 
Gloria,  as  she  arose  and  followed  her  conductress 
into  the  room  from  which  the  latter  had  emerged. 

It  was  the  front  room  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
hall — a  large  room,  with  an  oak  floor  uncarpeted, 
stone  walls  unplastered,  two  tall  front  windows, 
uncurtained,  and  a  broad  fireplace,  where  blazed 
a  rousing,  fragrant  fire  of  pine  and  cedar  wood. 

An  oaken  table,  covered  with  a  coarse,  clean 
white  cloth,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  set 
for  dinner;  two  oaken  chairs  were  placed  for  the 
master  and  mistress  of  the  house. 

David  Lindsay  stood  before  the  fire,  but  on  see 
ing  Gloria,  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

"You  look  pale  and  worried,"  he  said,  as  he  took 
her  hand. 

'Teg,  I  have  been  going  over  the  house  and  I  feel 
tired,"  she  replied. 


320  GLORIA 

"And  hungry,  I  hope,  to  do  justice  to  the  dainty 
repast  Mrs.  Brent  has  prepared  for  us,"  he  added, 
as  he  led  her  to  the  table  and  drew  out  her  chair. 

"Now  come,  Mrs.  Brent  and  Philippa,  you  must 
both  sit  down  and  dine  with  us  to-day.  Don't  let 
it  be  said  that  we  had  to  take  our  dinner  alone  on 
the  first  day  of  our  arrival  at  home,"  said  Gloria. 

David  Lindsay  immediately  arose  and  placed  two 
more  chairs  at  the  table. 

"Oh,  we  couldn't  think  of  it,  ma'am,  indeed!" 
answered  the  housekeeper,  drawing  away. 

Gloria  urged  and  David  pleaded,  but  Mrs.  Brent 
persisted  in  her  refusal,  until  at  length  Gloria  got 
up  and  left  the  table,  saying: 

"Very  well,  then,  I  will  not  eat  a  single  morsel 
of  dinner  until  you  and  Phil  join  us." 

"Oh,  I'll  submit  at  once,  laughed  Philippa,  tak 
ing  one  of  the  vacant  chairs. 

"Do,  Mrs.  Brent,  humor  the  fancy  of  our  willful 
little  lady,"  said  David  Lindsay,  as  he  arose  and 
placed  his  hand  on  the  back  of  another  chair,  in 
viting  the  old  woman  to  take  it. 

"You  are  a  couple  of  spoiled  children,  that's  what 
you  are,  and  you  ought  both  to  be  at  school  instead 
of  being  married,  and  that  is  the  fact,"  laughed  the 
housekeeper,  as,  not  really  unwillingly,  she  took 
her  place  at  the  table  with  the  genial  young  pair. 

"Now,  that  is  settled.  The  precedent — don't  they 
call  it  a  precedent  in  the  courts  of  law,  David? — 
the  precedent  is  established.  Henceforth  you  are 
to  take  your  meals  with  us,  dear  Mrs.  Brent,  just 
as  if  you  were  our  mother,  and  Philippa  were  our 
sister;  for  we  have  neither  mother  nor  sister  on 
this  earth — I  mean  David  nor  I — and,  besides, 
really,  we  four  are  too  few  to  be  separated  in  this 


GLORIA  321 

lonesome  place,"  said  the  little  lady  of  the  house, 
as  she  settled  herself  to  enjoy  her  dinner  as  well  as 
she  could  under  the  circumstances  and  the  memory 
of  the  afternoon's  horror. 

It  was  a  very  limited  dinner,  consisting  of  just 
what  was  at  hand  and  could  be  cooked  in  a  hurry ; 
but  it  wras  a  very  dainty  dinner,  notwithstanding; 
there  were  delicious  broiled  venison  steaks,  light 
biscuits,  fresh  butter,  a  baked  custard,  preserved 
mountain  cherries,  tea,  coffee  and  cream. 

David  Lindsay  and  Mrs.  Brent  fully  appreciated 
the  good  things,  and  proved  that  they  did  so. 

But  neither  Gloria  nor  Philippa  could  so  far 
overcome  the  effect  of  that  ghastly  terror  in  the 
cave  as  to  relish  anything  that  was  set  before  them. 

As  this  late  meal  was  to  serve  as  both  dinner  and 
supper  for  the  small  household  on  this  day  of 
bustle,  they  sat  rather  long  at  the  table,  not  leav 
ing  it,  in  fact,  until  the  short  tallow  candles  that 
had  been  placed  upon  it  began  to  burn  low  in  their 
sockets. 

Then  David  Lindsay  and  Gloria  withdrew  from 
the  dining-room  and  went  into  the  parlor  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hall. 

There,  also,  a  fine  fire  was  burning,  and  a  table 
was  drawn  up  before  the  hearth,  flanked  by  two 
straight-backed,  chip-bottomed  chairs. 

"What  would  Miss  Agrippina  de  Crespigney  say, 
if  she  could  have  seen  her  niece,  the  'Countess 
Gloria,'  sitting  down  at  the  table  with  her  house 
keeper?"  inquired  David  Lindsay,  with  a  smile,  as 
they  seated  themselves  near  the  fire. 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  drop  that!  I  never  was 
intended  for  a  fine  lady,  David  Lindsay — never! 
— much  less  for  a  countess!  I  love  people,  David 


GLORIA 

Lindsay.  I  never  want  to  keep  them  at  a  distance. 
I  want  to  draw  them  closer  to  me,"  she  murmured, 
in  a  tender  tone,  with  her  eyes  fixed  dreamily  upon 
the  fire. 

"Then  love  me,  draw  me  nearer  to  you,  and  my 
life's  devotion  shall  be  yours/'  was  in  his  heart  and 
almost  on  his  lips  to  say;  but  he  put  away  the  selfish 
thought  and  continued  silent. 

It  was  growing  late,  and  they  were  both  very 
tired. 

Gloria  was  the  first  to  rise. 

"Good-night,  David  Lindsay,"  she  said  as  she 
took  one  of  the  tallow  candles  from  the  chimney 
shelf  to  light  her  steps. 

"Good-night,"  he  answered,  in  gentle  tones. 

"Your  room,"  she  resumed,  and  then  she  hesi 
tated,  holding  the  candle  in  her  hand  and  looking 
down  on  the  floor — "your  room  is  the  one  over  the 
dining-room.  You  will  find  everything  prepared 
there  for  your  comfort." 

"I  thank  you — very  much,"  answered  the  young 
man,  in  a  low  and  broken  voice. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  still  hesitating. 

"Good-night,  lady  dear." 

"God — bless — you,  David  Lindsay,"  she  added, 
faltering. 

"And  you,  too !  God  bless  you,  Gloria,"  he  an 
swered. 

She  went  out  of  the  room ;  but  as  she  turned  to 
shut  the  door,  she  caught  sight  of  his  face.  It  wore 
a  look  of  weary  sorrow,  such  as  he  never  would 
have  willingly  permitted  her  to  see;  and  suddenly 
she  sat  down  her  candle  on  the  hall  bench,  ran 
back  into  the  room,  threw  her  arms  around  his 


GLORIA  823 

neck  and  kissed  his  forehead,  sobbing  forth  the 
words : 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  I  am  so  sorry — so  sorry! 
But  I  can't  help  it.  Indeed,  I  can't,  dear  David 
Lindsay !" 

With  a  look  of  ineffable  tenderness,  he  put  his 
arm  around  her  waist  and  drew  her  close  to  his 
heart,  and  would  have  returned  her  kiss,  but  she 
suddenly  broke  from  him,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 
She  caught  up  her  candle  from  the  hall  table,  flew 
up  stairs  to  her  own  chamber,  shut  the  door,  and 
flung  herself  down  on  the  bed  in  a  passion  of  tears. 

"Oh-h-h !  what  a  hard,  cold,  proud  wretch  I  am ! 
What  a  cruel,  wicked,  unnatural  monster!  But  I 
cannot  help  it!  I  cannot!  I  don't  want  to  be 
married — I  do  not.  I  love  David  Lindsay!  I  do 
love  him,  dearly,  dearly,  dearly ;  I  always  did  love 
him  better  than  anybody  else  in  the  whole  world. 
Ah !  who  is  so  good  and  grand  as  he  is,  within  him 
self?  No  one  that  I  ever  saw  in  this  world.  No 
one  that  I  ever  read  of.  But  I  don't  want  to  be 
his  wife!  I  don't  want  to  be  anybody's  wife!  Oh, 
I  wish  I  had  stayed  at  the  Sacred  Heart,  with  the 
quiet  sisters  there!" 

She  was  interrupted  in  her  passionate  vehemence 
of  self-reproaches  and  lamentations  by  the  sound 
of  light  footsteps  and  cheerful  voices  approaching 
her  door,  and  finally  by  a  rapping  at  the  same. 

She  arose,  composed  herself  as  well  as  she  could 
and  went  and  opened  to  Mrs.  Brent  and  Philippa, 
who  had  come  to  bid  her  good-night,  and  to  ask  if 
she  would  need  anything  more  before  they  should 
retire  to  bed. 

Gloria  thanked  them  and  said  that  she  would  re 
quire  nothing. 


GLORIA 

"And  if  you  should,  you  have  only  to  knock  on 
the  door  between  us  to  let  me  know,  for  you  see 
our  room  is  just  back  of  yours  here,"  added  the 
housekeeper. 

"I  will  remember,"  replied  Gloria,  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Lindsay  will  not  want  anything. 
I  reckon  he'll  be  up  before  long.  I  left  him  sitting 
before  the  big  parlor  fire,"  remarked  Mrs.  Brent. 

"I  dare  say,"  answered  Gloria,  so  wearily  that 
the  housekeeper  bade  her  good-night  and  retired, 
followed  by  Philippa,  who,  since  their  fearful  ad 
venture  in  the  cavern  under  the  cellar,  had  been 
strangely  silent  and  reserved. 

Gloria  locked  her  door  leading  into  the  hall  and 
bolted  the  one  leading  into  the  rear  room  occupied 
by  the  housekeeper. 

Then  she  replenished  her  fire  from  a  box  of  wood 
that  sat  on  one  side  of  the  hearth,  and  also  threw 
on  a  number  of  resinous  pine  knots  and  cones,  that 
their  bright  blaze  might  light  up  the  large,  gloomy 
chamber. 

Having  done  this,  she  proceeded  to  examine  her 
room  more  carefully  than  she  had  yet  done. 

It  was  one  of  the  two  front  and  principal  bed 
chambers  in  the  house,  being  immediately  above, 
and  of  the  same  dimensions  with  the  "big  parlor" 
below.  And,  with  the  exception  of  the  bed,  which, 
in  all  its  appointments,  was  very  good,  it  was  as 
rudely  furnished.  The  walls  and  floor  were  per 
fectly  bare.  The  window's  were  without  curtains 
or  shades,  but  were  provided  with  unpainted  oak 
shutters  which  closed  from  the  outside.  These  two 
front  windows  faced  the  east;  between  them  stood 
an  old  oaken  chest  of  drawers  surmounted  by  a 
hanging  mirror,  so  mildewed  as  to  be  scarcely  use- 


GLORIA  325 

ful.  Each  side  of  this  old  piece  of  furniture  stood 
a  high-backed,  chip-bottomed  chair,  one  under  each 
window. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  room  was  the  broad  open 
fire-place,  with  deep  closets  in  the  recesses  on  the 
right  and  left. 

On  the  west  side  was  the  high  four-post  bedstead, 
with  its  head  against  the  partition  wall,  and  its  foot 
opposite  the  windows.  On  the  side  nearest  the  fire 
place  was  the  door  leading  into  the  rear  room. 

On  the  north  side  was  the  door  opening  into  the 
hall.  In  the  corner  between  this  hall  door  and  the 
head  of  the  bed  was  an  old-fashioned  piece  of  fur 
niture  of  black  walnut  that  reached  from  the  lofty 
ceiling  to  the  floor,  and  might  have  been  a  book 
case,  a  clothes-press,  a  cabinet,  or  the  three  in  one; 
for  the  long,  heavy  black  doors  hanging  open  dis 
closed  closets  within  closets,  and  shelves  and 
drawers  and  pigeon-holes  innumerable,  and  of  all 
shapes  and  sizes.  Yellow  papers  protruded  from 
many  compartments. 

Gloria  made  up  her  mind  to  investigate  this  an 
cient  secretary  at  her  leisure  the  next  day. 

Then,  having  offered  up  her  evening  prayers  and 
thanksgivings,  she  went  to  bed,  and,  notwithstand 
ing  care  and  anxiety,  she  soon  fell  asleep. 

David  Lindsay  sat  long  over  the  fire  in  the  big 
parlor;  not  until  all  the  household  had  been  for 
hours  in  deep  repose  did  he  rouse  himself  to  go  to 
the  chamber  allotted  to  him  over  the  dining-room. 

This  was  a  large,  square  room,  in  all  respects  a 
counterpart  of  the  one  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hall  occupied  by  Gloria.  It  was  furnished  in  the 
same  rude  style. 

The  only  difference  was  that  this  room  was  with- 


326  GLORIA 

out  the  huge  old  escritoire,  or  secretary,  that  stood 
in  the  other. 

David  Lindsay  did  not  replenish  his  fire.  It  was 
nearly  out,  so  he  covered  it  up,  blew  out  his  snuff 
of  candle,  and  retired  to  bed;  but  not  to  sleep — at 
least,  for  a  long  time. 

He  was  as  nearly  heart-broken,  poor  fellow,  as 
any  youthful  lover  ever  was.  His  pride  was  strug 
gling  with  the  sense  of  disappointment,  humilia 
tion  and  sorrow  that  seemed  to  be  rushing  him 
into  despair.  He  felt  sure  that  if  his  capricious 
but  tender  bride  knew  the  tithe  of  his  sufferings, 
she  would  give  herself  to  him;  but  not  to  her  pity 
could  he  bear  to  owe  his  love.  He  must  accept  his 
fate,  rather  than  lose  his  self-respect ;  must  see  her 
in  safety,  and  then  depart. 

But  how  to  secure  her  safety?  That  was  the 
question  that  kept  him  awake  so  long. 

At  length,  weary  mind  and  body  succumbed  to 
sleep. 

Then  a  very  strange  thing  happened. 

How  long  he  had  slept,  he  knew  not;  at  what 
time  he  awoke,  or  whether  he  really  did  awake,  or 
only  dreamt,  he  never  could  tell ;  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  gently  aroused  from  a  deep  and 
dreamless  sleep,  by  the  touch  of  a  soft  hand  on  his 
face,  and  the  tone  of  a  soft  voice  in  his  ear. 

"Who  is  there?"  he  murmured,  only  half  con 
scious. 

The  sweet,  low-toned,  pathetic  voice  answered: 
"It  is  I,  your  mother.  David  Gryphyn,  arise,  go 
hence,  get  to  your  home.  My  mother  has  somewhat 
to  say  to  you." 

The  soft  voice,  breathing  flute-like  over  him,  held 


GLORIA  327 

his  soul  in  a  spell  of  silence  and  repose  until  it 
ceased. 

Then,  wondering,  he  started  up  as  from  a  dream. 

The  room  was  perfectly  dark,  but  he  groped  his 
way  to  the  mantelpiece,  where  he  had  left  the 
tallow-candle  and  the  box  of  matches,  and  he  struck 
a  light.  And  still  in  great  agitation,  he  went  to 
both  the  chamber  doors — the  one  leading  into  the 
hall,  and  the  one  leading  into  the  rear  room — and 
examined  them.  They  were  both  securely  locked 
and  bolted  as  he  had  left  them. 

Then  he  went  to  the  front  windows,  hoisted  them, 
and  threw  open  the  heavy  oaken  shutters.  A  flood 
of  light  burst  into  the  room.  He  found,  to  his  sur 
prise,  that  it  was  broad  day  and  the  sun  was  rising. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"WAS  IT  A  DREAM?" 

Spirits  have  oftentimes  descended 
Upon  our  slumbers,  and  the  blessed  ones 
Have  in  the  calm  and  quiet  of  the  soul 
Conversed  with  us.  SHIRLEY. 

SUNSHINE  flowed  into  the  rconi,  filling  it  with 
dazzling  light.  Yet  David  Lindsay,  after  having 
opened  the  shutters  and  let  down  the  window- 
sashes,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  gazing  down 
like  one  still  half  entranced,  with  the  impression 
of  that  soft  touch  still  on  his  brow,  and  the  melody 
of  that  tender  voice  still  in  his  ear. 


328  GLORIA 

"Was  it  a  dreain?"  he  murmured  to  himself. 
"Could  it  have  been  a  dream?  No  dream  I  ever  had 
was  ever  so  like  reality.  Or  could  some  dreaming 
sleep-walker  have  entered  my  chamber  and  saluted 
me?  Impossible!  Yet,  let  me  examine  the  doors 
once  more." 

He  roused  himself,  and  went  again  to  investigate 
the  fastenings  on  the  only  two  outlets  from  the 
room — the  first  leading  into  the  hall,  and  the 
second  into  the  rear  room. 

He  found  them  both  securely  locked  and  bolted, 
and,  moreover,  the  locks  and  bolts  were  both  so 
strong  and  so  rusty  that  they  required  some  con 
siderable  exertion  to  move  them. 

No  one  could  have  entered  through  the  doors, 
that  was  certain. 

He  looked  into  both  closets  that  flanked  the  fire 
place,  but  the  bare  plastered  walls  and  oaken 
shelves  afforded  no  opportunity  of  concealment  or 
of  passage. 

Every  other  nook  and  corner  of  the  room  was 
clearly  visible  in  the  bright  sunshine.  Even  the 
space  under  the  high  bedstead  was  a  vista.  The 
plastered  walls  of  the  room,  like  those  of  the 
closets,  gave  no  chance  of  a  sliding  panel  for  en 
trance  or  exit  through  a  secret  passage.  Nor  could 
any  one  have  come  in  or  gone  out  through  the 
windows,  which,  besides  having  been  securely  fas 
tened  with  oaken  shutters  secured  by  strong  and 
rusty  iron  hooks  and  bolts,  were  full  fifty  feet 
above  the  ground,  with  a  sheer  descent  of  stone  wall 
below  them,  and  no  tree,  or  vine,  or  porch,  or  bal 
cony  to  assist  the  climber. 

No!  it  was  utterly  and  entirely  impossible  that 
any  human  being,  besides  himself,  could  have  been 


GLORIA  329 

concealed  in  the  room  when  he  went  to  bed,  or 
could  have  entered  it  afterward. 

And  yet  he  had  been  awakened  from  a  deep  and 
dreamless  sleep  by  a  light  touch  on  his  forehead, 
and  had  perceived  a  benignant  presence  that  he 
could  not  see,  a  presence  which,  to  his  half-con 
scious  question  of  "Who  is  there?"  had  answered 
in  murmuring  music,  soft  as  the  notes  of  an  .'Eolian 
harp: 

"It  is  I,  your  mother.  David  Gryphyn,  arise,  and 
go  hence ;  get  to  your  home — my  mother  has  some 
what  to  say  to  you." 

And  the  soft  voice  sunk  into  silence,  and  when  he 
started  up  and  opened  the  window  shutters,  letting 
in  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  the  great  bare  walls  and  floor  of  the 
room,  with  its  scant  and  rude  furniture. 

David  Lindsay  sat  down  on  one  of  the  rough 
chairs,  and  took  his  head  between  his  hands  to 
think  it  over.  He  could  make  nothing  of  it.  The 
voice  had  said:  "It  is  I,  your  mother."  But  the 
voice  was  not  at  all  like  that  of  his  mother,  as  he 
remembered  hers.  Again,  the  mysterious  visitant 
had  said,  "David  Gryphyn."  But  his  name  was  not 
David  Gryphyn;  it  was  David  Lindsay.  Finally, 
it  had  concluded  with  these  unaccountable  words 
— "Go  hence  and  get  to  your  home,  for  my  mother 
has  somewhat  to  communicate  to  you."  But  his 
mother  had  no  mother  living  on  this  earth,  he  knew. 
His  mother  had  been  an  orphan  when  his  father, 
James  Lindsay,  had  married  her.  The  old  woman 
at  his  home,  Dame  Lindsay,  was  his  grandmother 
on  his  father's  side. 

The  dream,  or  vision,  strange  and  real  and  super 
human  as  it  seemed,  was  an  absurdly  mixed-up 


330  GLORIA 

affair,  caused,  no  doubt,  by  confused  memories  and 
thoughts  jumbled  up  together  in  his  disturbed 
brain.  So  David  Lindsay  said  to  himself,  yet  he 
could  not  shake  off  the  supernatural,  perhaps  even 
the  superstitious,  effects  left  upon  his  mind. 

He  had  been  moving  about  and  then  sitting  still 
in  the  cold  room,  just  as  he  had  jumped  out  of  bed. 
He  had  been  too  much  absorbed  by  his  strange  sub 
ject  of  thought  to  feel  the  chill  that  was  creeping 
upon  him. 

Now,  however,  as  he  aroused  himself  from  useless 
reverie,  he  shivered  and  shook  as  with  an  ague,  and 
hastened  to  the  hearth  and  uncovered  the  smoulder 
ing  coals  and  brands,  and  threw  upon  them  several 
handfuls  of  resinous  pine  cones  and  knots  taken 
from  a  box  in  the  corner,  and  upon  them  several 
cedar  sticks  and  logs  from  a  pile  in  the  opposite 
corner,  that  soon  blazed  up,  filling  the  room  with 
an  agreeable  warmth  and  pleasant  fragrance. 

Then  he  dressed  himself  and  went  out. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  hall  outside  the  bed 
chambers,  so  he  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  not 
the  only  one  up  in  this  strange  house. 

He  passed  down  stairs  and  found  the  fires  burn 
ing  brightly  in  the  broad  front  and  back  fire-places 
in  the  hall,  but  still  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 

He  entered  the  abig  parlor,"  arid  found  another 
pine  fire  there,  but  the  room  was  empty. 

In  the  spirit  of  restlessness  he  wandered  into 
every  room  on  that  floor,  finding  every  one  well 
warmed  by  great  open  fires  of  costly  logs — costly 
in  every  other  locality,  but  cheap  enough,  because 
plenty  enough  on  Cedar  Mountain. 

These   numerous   fires   were   needed   now,    and 


GLORIA  331 

would  be  needed  for  some  time  yet,  to  correct  the 
dampness  and  bad  air  of  the  long-deserted  house. 

Last  of  all  he  wandered  into  the  dining-room, 
where  they  had  taken  dinner  and  tea  in  one  on  the 
preceding  day. 

Here  the  table  was  drawn  up  before  the  bright, 
blazing  fire,  and  neatly  set  for  breakfast. 

"What  a  home  this  is  for  Gloria  to  come  to! 
What  a  strange  fascination  it  is  that  brings  her 
here  and  keeps  her  here.  Why,  our  poor  little  cot 
tage  on  Sandy  Isle  is  a  civilized  and  refined  home 
compared  to  this !  And  we  have  the  small  comforts 
of  life  and  a  few  books  and  a  few  little  ornaments. 
And  Promontory  Hall  is  a  queen's  palace  to  this. 
For  here,  in  this  unfinished  and  almost  unfurnished 
place,  there  is  not  a  papered  wall,  not  a  single 
carpet,  nor  a  curtain,  nor  a  picture,  nor  a  cast,  nor 
a  book  to  be  seen.  It  supplies  only  an  inventory 
of  negations.  How  can  she  stay  here?  But  there 
is  one  good  in  the  place.  She  is  as  safe  here,  per 
haps  safer  here  with  Mrs.  Brent,  than  she  would  be 
anywhere  else ;  for  I  am  not  sure,  if  she  were  within 
the  reach  of  her  half-crazy  guardian,  that  her  mar 
riage  would  be  any  protection  against  his  persecu 
tion.  Finding  out  this  marriage  to  have  been  only 
a  form,  he  might  choose  to  ignore  it  and  urge  upon 
her  the  expediency  of  having  it  legally  annulled. 
I  cannot  trust  an  infatuated  man  without  religious 
principles  to  restrain  him.  Yes,  she  is  better  here 
for  the  present,  and  if  I  could  get  Miss  de  Crespi- 
gney  to  join  her  here,  it  would  be  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  for  her;  for  Miss  Agrippina  is  too 
strictly  principled  not  to  hold  to  the  sanctity  of 
marriage  vows,  even  in  such  a  case  as  ours,  and 
she  would  be  now  the  best  protection  for  my  un- 


332  GLORIA 

loving  bride.  I  will  try  to  get  Miss  Agrippina  to 
eoine  to  her,  even  if  I  ha»re  to  brave  that  lady's 
rage." 

So  mused  David  Lindsay,  sitting  before  the  din 
ing-room  fire,  until  he  was  interrupted  by  the  en 
trance  of  Mrs.  Brent,  bringing  a  coffee-pot  in  her 
hands  and  followed  by  a  negro  man  with  a  large 
dish  of  broiled  partridges. 

"Dear  me!  Good  morning,  sir!  You  nere!  I 
was  just  a  going  to  send  Hector  to  let  you  know 
breakfast  was  ready ;  for  as  I  didn't  see  you  in  the 
big  parlor  with  Mrs.  Lindsay,  I  thought  you  were 
still  in  your  room,"  said  the  good  woman. 

"I  have  been  down  some  time;  but  there  was  no 
one  in  the  parlor  when  I  looked  in." 

"Mrs.  Lindsay  has  only  been  there  for  a  few 
minutes,  sir.  Here  she  comes  now !  Now,  Hector, 
bring  in  the  muffins." 

Gloria  entered  at  the  same  moment. 

David  Lindsay  arose  and  placed  a  chair  for  her. 
They  only  said  good-morning  to  each  other  by  a 
look. 

The  last  dishes  were  set  on  the  board,  Philippa 
joined  them,  and  they  all  sat  down  to  the  table, 
the  girl  just  nodding  by  way  of  a  morning  saluta 
tion. 

"I  hope  you  slept  well,  ma'am?"  said  Mrs.  Brent, 
interrogatively. 

"Profoundly.  I  never  even  dreamed  or  stirred 
until  morning !  If  there  be  a  ghost  about  the  house 
it  didn't  disturb  me,"  answered  Gloria. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  should  have  slept  quietly 
enough  too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Philly!  She  kept 
jumping  and  starting,  and  talking,  and  crying  out 
the  live-long  night,"  said  the  housekeeper. 


GLORIA  333 

Gloria  looked  at  her  young  companion  and  saw 
that  she  was  pale  and  anxious,  yet  Gloria  did  not 
dare  to  ask  the  reason,  lest  "Philly"  should  blurt 
out  something  about  the  ghastly  apparition  that 
had  appalled  them  in  the  cavern. 

But  Philippa  spoke  for  herself. 

"It  was  too  much  supper  and  the  nightmare,"  she 
explained,  with  serio-comic  gravity. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  Gloria  left  the 
table  and  retreated  into  the  big  parlor,  followed  by 
David  Lindsay. 

Gloria  had  unpacked  some  materials  for  the  silk 
embroidery  which  she  liked  so  well  to  do.  Now  she 
had  brought  some  down  to  the  parlor  with  her,  and 
she  sat  down  and  began  to  arrange  it  for  work. 

"If  I  were  not  still  so  extremely  tired  with  my 
week's  rumbling  over  rough  roads,  I  should  like  to 
go  out  to-day  and  explore  some  of  this  magnificent 
mountain  scenery,"  she  said,  as  she  threaded  her 
needle. 

"What?  In  paths  covered  deep  in  snow  and  ice?" 
queried  David  Lindsay,  as  he  stood  on  the  hearth 
with  his  elbow  leaning  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Yes !  It  is  not  the  condition  of  the  ground  that 
would  prevent  me!  It  is  my  own  state.  I  feel  as 
weary  and  worn  out  as  if  I  were  seventy  years  old 
instead  of  seventeen.  In  fact,  I  feel  my  fatigue 
even  more  to-day  than  I  did  yesterday." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that.  I  had  hoped  that  you 
had  quite  recovered.  You  said  that  you  had  slept 
so  soundly." 

"That  was  from  my  deep  weariness.  Yes,  I  slept 
'like  death'  all  night.  But  I  will  venture  to  say  that 
you  did  not,  David  Lindsay.  You  look  as  if  you 


884  GLORIA 

had  been  interviewed  by  an  unpleasant  ghost !"  said 
Gloria  lightly. 

"I  have !"  replied  David  Lindsay,  with  an  as 
sumed  solemnity  that  imposed  upon  his  companion. 

"WHAT!" 

"I  have." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  asked  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  say  you  have?" 

"Yes." 

"Been  interviewed  by  a  ghost?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  what  do  you  mean?"  de 
manded  Gloria,  in  wonder  and  perplexity. 

"My  dear  little  lady,  I  mean  very  much  of  what 
I  have  said,"  he  gravely  replied. 

"Do  explain  yourself.  Have  you  seen  or  heard 
anything  extraordinary  in  this  strange  house?" 

"My  dear  lady,  yes,  I  have.  Last  night,  or  rather 
early  this  morning,  I  had  an  extraordinary  dream, 
or  vision — no,  not  vision,  for  I  saw  nothing — but 
visitation,  for  I  both  felt  and  heard  the  presence," 
said  the  young  man,  as  seriously  as  before. 

"Now,  are  you  in  earnest?  But  of  course  you  are. 
You  would  not  jest  on  such  a  subject." 

"I  am  not  jesting,"  said  the  young  man,  gently. 
"Yet  it  woulld  seem  absurd  to  be  in  earnest  about 
the  matter.  In  truth,  I  am  perplexed.  For,  dear 
Gloria,  I  am  not  ready  to  deny  or  utterly  disbelieve 
in  the  possibility  of  communication  between  the 
natural  and  the  spiritual  world — in  the  face  of  so 
much  evidence  from  tradition  and  history  and  even 
from  the  Word  of  the  Lord.  What  I  experienced 
last  night  would  have  almost  persuaded  me  to  be 
lieve  in  the  possible  return  of  departed  spirits,  but 


GLORIA  335 

for  some  strange  inconsistency  in  the  communica 
tion  made  me." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  David  Lindsay,"  exclaimed 
Gloria,  dropping  her  work  upon  her  lap  and  gazing 
up  at  him. 

"Last  night,  after  I  went  to  my  room,  I  locked 
and  bolted  both  the  doors  and  hooked  and  bolted 
both  pairs  of  window-shutters.  Then  I  went  to  bed, 
and  towards  morning  fell  into  a  deep  and  dream 
less  sleep,  such  as  would  naturally  follow  the  last 
week  of  excessive  fatigue." 

"Like  mine,  yes." 

"From  that  death-like  sleep  I  was  gently  but 
completely  awakened  by  feeling  a  light  hand  laid 
on  my  forehead.  'Who  is  there?'  I  called.  A  low, 
tender,  flute-like  voice  replied:  'It  is  I,  your 
mother.  David  Gryphyn,  arise  and  go  hence — get- 
to  your  home.  My  mother  has  somewhat  to  say  to 
you.'  " 

"Gracious  Heaven,  David  Lindsay,  do  you  tell  me 
that!"  exclaimed  Gloria,  turning  pale. 

"Yes,  but  whether  this  was  a  dream  or  a  visita 
tion,  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  must  say  it  was  more  like 
a  visitation." 

"What  did  you  do  or  say?" 

"Nothing  at  first.  I  felt  spell-bound — dum- 
founded." 

"Did  you  see  this  mysterious  visitant?" 

"No,  I  only  felt  her  hand  on  my  forehead  and 
heard  her  voice  in  my  ears." 

"Did  she  speak  again?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  sprang  out  of  bed  and  threw  open  the  window- 
shutters.  The  sun  was  rising  and  filled  the  room 


336  GLORIA 

full  of  light.  I  searched  the  place  thoroughly,  and 
found  no  one ;  examined  the  doors,  and  found  them 
securely  locked  and  holted  as  I  had  left  them  on 
the  previous  night." 

"And  so  you  were  convinced  that  no  one  was  con 
cealed  in  your  chamber,  or  could  have  entered  it 
during  the  night." 

"Yes,  I  am  convinced  of  that." 

"David  Lindsay,  what  do  you  think  of  this  your 
self?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  to  think.  It  was  less  like 
a  dream  than  like  a  real  visitation." 

"Was  the  mysterious  visitant  like  your  mother?" 

"I  repeat  that  I  did  not  see  the  visitant  at  all. 
I  felt  her  hand  upon  my  forehead.  I  heard  her 
voice  in  my  ear.  That  was  all.  But  I  must  say 
that  though  she  called  herself  my  mother,  her  hand 
felt  much  smaller,  slenderer,  softer  and  lighter 
than  my  poor  mother's  hand,  which  was  large  and 
hard  and  roughened  by  coarse  work ;  her  voice  also 
was  fine  and  flute-like,  whereas  my  dear  mother's 
voice  was  deep  and  strong.  No !  though  I  did  not 
see  my  mysterious  visitant,  I  perceived  that  she 
must  have  been  a  very  opposite  person  to  my  own 
poor  mother." 

"Yet  she  said  she  was  your  mother,  and  her 
mother  had  somewhat  to  say  to  you." 

"Yes,  which  is  an  inconsistency  with  fact;  for 
my  poor  mother  was  an  orphan  from  her  youth." 

"And  she  called  you  David  Gryphyn." 

"Yes,  another  inconsistency,  since  my  name  is 
David  Lindsay — these  two  incoherences  favor  the 
theory  that  my  possible  supernatural  experience 
was  nothing  more  than  a  very  distinct  dream;  for 
you  know  dreams  are  notoriously  incoherent." 


GLORIA  337 

"Yes,  I  know  all  that;  but  still,  David  Lindsay, 
I  think  there  must  be  something  more  than  a  com 
monplace  dream  in  what  you  have  just  told  me. 
You  have  not  heard  from  Dame  Lindsay  since  we 
left  ten  days  ago,  have  you?" 

"No.  I  wrote  to  her  from  Washington,  and  again 
from  Staunton;  but  of  course  you  know  there  has 
been  no  chance  of  hearing  from  her." 

"And  she  is  old  and  infirm.  She  may  be  ill  or 
dying.  David  Lindsay,  I  hope  you  will  set  out  and 
return  to  her  as  soon  as  possible." 

"I  shall  leave  here  to-morrow.  But,  my  dear  lady, 
you  should  have  some  better  protection  here  than 
your  housekeeper  and  servants.  Did  you  not  tell 
me  that  Miss  de  Crespigney  would  be  in  Washing 
ton  by  the  first  of  February?" 

"Yes.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  I  think  she  would  be  the  most  desir 
able  companion  that  you  could  have  here,  and  I 
think  if  she  knew  your  condition  she  would  come 
to  you." 

"Oh,  yes !  I  know  she  would !  Well  thought  of, 
David  Lindsay !  Aunt  Agrippina  was  to  have  been 
in  Washington  this  month.  The  month  is  nearly 
out  now.  After  the  commencement  of  Lent  she  will 
not  care  to  stay  in  the  city,  as  she  never  goes  to 
any  place  of  amusement  during  that  season,  so  it 
will  be  no  sacrifice  on  her  part  to  leave  Washing 
ton,"  said  Gloria,  with  animation. 

"Then  as  I  go  through  the  city,  I  will  find  out 
where  her  party  is  stopping,  and  call  and  see  her." 

"Yes,  David  Lindsay,  and  take  a  letter  from  me." 

"If  you  wish." 

"Yes,  I  do ;  for  I  must  tell  her  how  it  all  was,  and 
she  will  understand  better  than  most  people  would, 


^33  GLORIA 

the  straits  to  which  I  have  been  driven !  She  knows 
Marcel  and  she  knows  me,  and,  moreover,  she  would 
have  considered  it  a  mortal  sin  for  me  to  have 
married  my  Uncle  Marcel.  I  will  go  and  get  out 
my  writing  materials,  and  commence  the  letter  at 
once,"  she  exclaimed,  rolling  up  her  embroidery 
and  rising  to  leave  the  room;  but  looking  up,  she 
met  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  fixed  on  her,  and 
full  of  the  disappointment  and  sorrow  that  he  could 
not  always  banish  from  them. 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  can  you  ever  forgive  me  for 
the  great  wrong  I  have  done  you?77  she  cried,  drop 
ping  into  her  chair  again  and  covering  her  face 
with  both  hands. 

He  did  not  say  that  there  was  nothing  to  forgive; 
that  no  wrong  had  been  done  him;  he  could  not 
speak  so  falsely  even  to  soothe  her  whom  he  loved 
so  fondly  and  so  unselfishly.  He  had  been  asked 
to  marry  her,  and  then  had  been  rejected  at  the 
altar.  He  had  been  deprived  of  his  liberty,  and 
then  bitterly  disappointed  and  humiliated.  This 
was  a  deep  wrong,  and  he  felt  it  very  acutely.  He 
could  not  soothe  her  by  any  smooth  denial  that  it 
was  so,  yet  neither  did  he  reproach  her  even  in  his 
thoughts. 

When  she  dropped  her  hands  upon  her  lap,  re 
vealing  her  tear-stained  face  and  repeated  her 
question : 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  can  you  ever,  ever  forgive 
me,  for  the  great  wrong  I  have  done  you?'7  his  heart 
melted  with  tenderness  towards  her,  he  knelt  by  her 
side,  took  her  limp  hands  in  his  own,  looked  up  in 
her  woeful  little  face — his  own  fine  face  full  of  the 
heavenly  light  of  self-renunciation,  and  said: 

"Whatever  there  may  be  to  forgive,  dearest,  I 


GLORIA  339 

forgive  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  I  love  you  too 
deeply  and  truly  to  feel  a  shade  of  anger  towards 
vou.  Never,  even  in  my  thoughts,  have  I  blamed 
you." 

"Oh,  you  are  so  good  and  great-hearted,  David 
Lindsay!  And  I  have,  in  my  impulsive  selfishness, 
so  spoiled  your  life !  Married  you  and  then  refused 
to  he  your  wife,  and  put  it  out  of  your  power  to 
wed  any  other  woman !"  she  cried,  weeping  bitterly. 

"No,  Gloria,  no,  dear,  do  not  reproach  yourself 
with  that  last  consequence,  for  it  is  not  true.  I 
love  you  only,  and  have  loved  you  only  all  the  days 
of  my  life.  I  could  not,  and  cannot  change.  So 
even  if  I  had  not  married  you  I  could  never  have 
married  any  other  woman.  Put  that  cause  of  self- 
reproach  out  of  your  mind,  Gloria." 

She  was  crying  so  convulsively  that  she  could 
not  speak  for  some  time.  When  she  could,  her 
hands  clasped  his,  and  she  sobbed  forth : 

"And  I  love  you,  David  Lindsay !  Oh,  I  do !  I  do ! 
I  do !  I  do  love  you,  so  dearly !  You  feel  so  near 
to  me,  David  Lindsay ;  just  like  my  own  heart  and 
soul;  but  I  don't  want  to  be  married!  That  is,  I 
know  I  am  married,  but  I  don't  want  to  be!" 

He  made  no  sort  of  reply  to  this  tirade. 

"Oh,  David  Lindsay,  I  don't  want  you  to  go  and 
leave  me,  either.  I  don't !  What  should  I  do  with 
out  you  now?  I  should  cry  myself  blind!  Oh, 
David  Lindsay,  how  unhappy  we  are!" 

"There  is  a  wall  between  us,  dear.  I  know  not 
what  it  is,  but  I  feel  it  bitterly.  It  may  be  the  wall 
of  caste  or  prejudice.  I  would  it  were  down." 

"Ah,  Heaven,  so  do  I !  Oh,  dear  David  Lindsay, 
don't  go  and  leave  me.  Stay  with  me,  and  let  us  be 
just  like  brother  and  sister.  Say,  darling  old  play- 


340  GLORIA 

mate,  won't  you  stay  and  be  my  brother?"  she 
pleaded,  taking  his  head  between  her  little  hands, 
and  laying  her  face  against  his  forehead. 

Now,  if  he  had  been  a  hypocrite,  or  even  a  diplo 
matist,  he  would  have  accepted  these  terms,  and 
trusted  to  time  to  win  the  entire  heart  of  his  bride. 
But  he  was  too  honest,  open  and  straightforward, 
and  though  his  frame  shook  with  emotion,  and  his 
voice  was  well-nigh  suffocated,  he  answered  firmly : 

"No,  Gloria,  No,  dearest.  What  you  ask  is  be 
yond  human  nature;  or,  at  least,  beyond  mine." 

She  cried  hard  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  sud 
denly  clasped  his  head  again  as  he  knelt  beside  her, 
dropped  her  own  upon  it,  and  sobbed  forth  her  sub 
mission  : 

"Well,  then  take  me!  Take  me!  I  will  keep  my 
vow!  I  will  be  your  wife,  David  Lindsay!" 

And  now  if  his  great  love  had  not  been  utterly 
without  self-love  he  would  have  taken  her  at  her 
word. 

But,  still  shaking  with  a  storm  of  emotion,  still 
speaking  in  an  almost  expiring  voice,  he  answered : 

"It  is  your  pity  that  speaks  now,  my  dearest. 
You  feel  grieved  for  me,  and  in  the  pity  of  your 
heart  you  are  willing  to  give  up  all  your  late  repug 
nance,  and  sacrifice  yourself  to  my  happiness.  Yes, 
even  as  you  once  feared  you  would  do  in  the  case 
of  your  guardian 

"But  oh,  David  Lindsay,  it  is  so  different!  It 
would  have  been  a  mortal  sin  for  me  to  have  been 
MarcePs  wife.  It  seems  to  me  now  it  would  be  a 
sin  not  to  be  yours !"  wept  Gloria. 

"You  think  and  speak  on  an  impulse,  dearest, 
that  you  would  repent.  You  would  be  sure  to  re 
pent  it;  and  then,  Gloria,  I  should  be  most  wretched 


GLORIA  341 

indeed.  No,  love,  I  must  not  take  advantage  of  this 
pity  you  feel,  for  it  is  nothing  else,  Gloria.  To 
morrow  I  must  leave  you.  It  is  my  duty  to  do  so. 
I  will  send  your  aunt,  Miss  de  Crespigney,  to 
you " 

"Oh !  David  Lindsay,  but  my  heart  will  break !" 

"No,  no,  love!  Listen  to  me.  Try  yourself,  dear 
est.  Find  out  what  will  make  you  happy.  Now 
you  suffer  from  a  generous,  tender  sympathy  with 
me,  which  is  not  love,  not  the  love  the  soul  craves, 
and  you  think  I  will  be  unhappy.  I  shall  not  be  so, 
dearest.  I  shall  be  actively  engaged  in  doing  my 
duty.'7 

"Oh,  but  it  is  not  only  for  you,  David  Lindsay,  it 
is  for  myself  that  I  am  grieving.  I  shall  miss  you 
so  much!" 

"Because  I  have  been  with  you  for  nearly  two 
weeks,  and  you  have  no  one  else,  except  these 
strangers.  But,  Gloria,  in  a  short  time  your  aunt 
will  be  here." 

"But  she  will  not  be  you !"  wailed  the  girl. 

"Listen  further.  If,  when  you  have  got  over  this 
pang  of  parting,  and  have  lived  some  little  time 
under  the  influence  of  your  aunt,  you  should  then, 
after  calm  reflection,  feel  that  you  could  be  happy 
with  me,  write  and  recall  me,  and  I  will  be  at  your 
feet  again,  as  I  am  now." 

He  had  controlled  himself  by  a  great  and  sus 
tained  exertion  of  his  will,  and  she  at  last  grew 
quieter  under  his  influence. 

"Dear  David  Lindsay,"  she  said,  with  a  final  sob 
and  sigh,  "go,  if  you  feel  that  you  must  go,  and  put 
me  on  this  probation,  if  you  think  I  need  it !  But  I 
shall  soon  write  and  beg  you  to  come  back  to  me. 


342  GLORIA 

Be  sure  of  that!  And  you  will  come  just  as  soon 
as  I  send  for  you,  will  you  not?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  you  write  for  me,"  he  answered. 

"And  oh,  David  Lindsay,  if  I  thought  you 
wouldn't — if  I  thought  that  anything  could  happen 
to  prevent  you  from  coming  back  to  me — I  could 
never  bear  to  see  you  go.  It  would  break  my  heart. 
You  will  come  back  to  me?  Tell  me  again." 

"I  will  come  back  as  soon  as  you  send  for  ma" 

THE  END 

[The  sequel  to  this  story  is  published  in  another 
volume,  entitled  "David  Lindsay,"  in  uniform  style 
and  price  with  this  book.] 


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HURT'S  SERIES  of  STANDARD  FICTION, 

RICHELIEU.  A  tale  of  France  in  the  reign  of  King  Louis  XIII.  By  G.  P. 
R.  James.  Cloth,  121110.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

In  1829  Mr.  James  published  his  first  romance,  "Richelieu,"  and  was 
recognized  at  once  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  craft. 

In  this  book  he  laid  the  story  during-  those  later  days  of  the  great  car 
dinal's  life,  when  his  power  was  beginning  to  wane,  but  while  it  was 
yet  sufficiently  strong  to  permit  now  and  then  of  volcanic  outbursts  which 
overwhelmed  foes  and  carried  friends  to  the  topmost  wave  of  prosperity. 
One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  story  is  that  of  Cinq  Mar's  conspir 
acy;  the  method  of  conducting  criminal  cases,  and  the  political  trickery 
resorted  to  by  royal  favorites,  affording  a  better  rnsight  Into  the  state 
craft  of  that  day  than  can  be  had  even  by  an  exhaustive  study  of  history. 
It  is  a  powerful  romance  of  love  and  diplomacy,  and  in  point  of  thrilling 
a.nd  absorbing  interest  has  never  been  excelled. 

A  COLONIAL  FREE-LANCE.  A  story  of  American  Colonial  Times.  By 
Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  i^mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis,  Price,  $1.00. 

A  book  that  appeals  to  Americans  as  a  vivid  picture  of  Revolutionary 
scenes.  The  story  is  a  strong  one,  a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true 
American  to  flush  with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter,  until 
the  eyes  smart,  and  it  fairly  smokes  with  patriotism.  The  love  story  is  a 
singularly  charming  idyl. 

THE  TOWER  OF  LONDON.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Times  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey  and  Mary  Tudor.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  i2m«.  with 
four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  romance  of  the  "Tower  of  London"  depicts  the  Tower  as  palace, 
prison  and  fortress,  with  many  historical  associations.  The  era  is  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  story  is  divided  into  two  parts,  one  dealing  with  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
and  the  other  with  Mary  Tudor  as  Queen,  introducing  other  notable  char 
acters  of  the  era.  Throughout  the  story  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader 
in  the  midst  of  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  extending  considerably  over  a 
half  a  century. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  Romance  of  the  American  Revolution 
By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched  in  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery, 
and  true  love  that  thrills  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a 
part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  His  whole  story  is  so  absorbing 
that  you  will  sit  up  far  into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance 
it  is  charming. 

GARTHOWEN.  A  story  of  a  Welsh  Homestead.  By  Allen  Raine.  Cloth, 
tamo,  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  Ji.oo. 

"This  is  a  little  idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  bare  before 
us,  very  real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of 
Welsh  character — the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath. 
.  .  .  We  call  this  a  well-written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its 
romance  and  its  glimpses  into  another  life  than  ours.  A  delightful  and 
clever  picture  of  Welsh  village  life.  The  result  is  excellent." — Detroit  Free 
Press. 

M*FANWY.  The  story  of  a  Welsh  Singer.  By  Allan  Raine.  Cloth, 
121110.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  love  story,  simple,  tender  and  pretty  as  one  would  care  to 
read.  The  action  throughout  is  brisk  and  pleasing;  the  characters,  it  is  ap 
parent  at  once,  are  as  true  to  life  as  though  the  author  had  known  them 
all  personally.  Simple  in  all  its  situations,  the  story  is  worked  up  in  that 
touching  and  quaint  strain  which  never  grows  wearisome,  no  matter  how 
often  the  lights  and  shadows  of  love  are  introduced.  It  rings  true,  and 
doee  not  tax  the  imagination." — Boston  Herald. 


SERIES  ©/  STANDARD  FICTION. 

DARNLEY.  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey. 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis. 
Price,  $1.00. 

As  a  historical  romance  "Darnley"  is  a  book  that  can  be  taken  up 
pleasurably  again  and  again,  for  there  is  about  it  that  subtle  charm  which 
those  who  are  strangers  to  the  works  of  G.  P.  R.  James  have  claimed  was 
only  to  be  imparted  by  Dumas. 

If  there  was  nothing  more  about  the  work  to  attract  especial  attention, 
the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  kings  on  the  historic  "fieid  of  the  cloth  of 
gold"  would  entitle  the  story  to  the  most  favorable  consideration  of  every 
reader. 

There  is  really  but  little  pure  romance  in  this  story,  for  the  author  has 
taken  care  to  imagine  love  passages  only  between  those  whom  history  has 
credited  with  having  entertained  the  tender  passion  one  for  another,  and 
he  succeeds  in  making  such  lovers  as  all  the  world  must  love. 

WINDSOR  CASTLE.    A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII 
Catharine  of  Aragon  and  Aline  Boleyn.    By  \Vm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.    Cloth. 
i2tno.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.    Price,  $1.00. 

"Windsor  Castle"  is  the  story  of  Henry  VIII.,  Catharine,  and  Anne 
Boleyn.  "Bluff  King  Hal,"  although  a  well-loved  monarch,  was  none  too 
good  a  one  in  many  ways.  Of  all  his  selfishness  and  unwarrantable  acts, 
none  was  more  discreditable  than  his  divorce  from  Catharine,  and  hir  mar 
riage  to  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn.  The  King's  love  was  as  brief  as  it 
was  vehement.  Jane  Seymour,  waiting  maid  on  the  Queen,  attracted  him, 
and  Anne  Boleyn  was  forced  to  the  block  to  make  room  for  her  successor. 
This  romance  is  one  of  extreme  interest  to  all  readers. 

HORSESHOE  ROBINSON.  A  tale  of  the  Tory  Ascendency  in  South  Caro 
lina  in  1780.  By  John  P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J. 
Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

Among  the  old  favorites  in  the  field  of  what  is  known  as  historical  fic 
tion,  there  are  none  which  appeal  to  a  larger  number  of  Americans  than 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  and  this  because  it  is  the  only  story  which  depicts 
with  fidelity  to  the  facts  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  colonists  in  South  Caro 
lina  to  defend  their  homes  against  the  brutal  oppression  of  the  British 
under  such  Jeaders  as  Cornwallis  and  Tarleton. 

The  reader  is  charmed  with  the  story  of  love  which  forms  the  thread 
of  the  tale,  and  then  impressed  with  the  wealth  of  detail  concerning  those 
times.  The  picture  of  the  manifold  sufferings  of  the  people,  is  never  over 
drawn,  but  painted  faithfully  and  honestly  by  one  who  spared  neither 
time  nor  labor  in  his  efforts  to  present  in  this  charming  love  story  all  that 
price  in  blood  and  tears  which  the  Carolinians  paid  as  their  share  in  the 
winning  of  the  republic. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  "Horseshoe  Robinson"  is  a  work  which  should  be 
found  on  every  book-shelf,  not  only  because  it  is  a  most  entertaining 
story,  but  because  of  the  wealth  of  valuable  information  concerning  t*e 
colonists  which  it  contains.  That  It  has  been  brought  out  once  more,  well 
illustrated,  is  something  which  will  give  pleasure  to  thousands  who  have 
long  desired  an  opportunity  to  read  the  story  again,  and  to  the  many  who 
have  tried  vainly  in  these  latter  days  to  procure  a  copy  that  they  might 
read  it  for  the  first  time. 

THE  PEARL  OP  ORR'S  ISLAND.  A  story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine.  By 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Cloth,  i2mo.  Illustrated.  Price,  $1.00. 

Written  prior  to  1862,  the  "Pearl  of  Orr's  Island"  is  ever  new;  a  book 
filled  with  delicate  fancies,  such  as  seemingly  array  themselves  anew  each 
time  one  reads  them.  One  sees  the  "sea  like  an  unbroken  mirror  all 
around  the  pine-girt,  lonely  shores  of  Orr's  Island,"  and  straightway 
comes  "the  heavy,  hollow  moan  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  like  the  wild 
angry  howl  of  some  savage  animal." 

Who  can  read  of  the  beginning  of  that  sweet  life,  named  Mara,  which 
came  into  this  world  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Death  angel's  wings, 
without  having  an  intense  desire  to  know  how  the  premature  bud  blos 
somed?  Again  and  again  one  lingers  over  the  descriptions  of  the  char 
acter  of  that  baby  boy  Moses,  who  came  through  the  tempest,  a-mid  th« 
angry  billows,  pillowed  on  his  dead  mother's  breast. 

There  is  no  more  faithful  portrayal  of  New  England  life  than  that 
tohich  Mrs.  Stowe  gives  in  "The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island." 


PUR/T'S  SERIES  of  STANDARD  FICTION, 

THE  SPIRIT  OP  THE  BORDER.  A  Romance  of  the  Early  Settlers  in  the 
Ohio  Valley.  By  Zane  Grey.  Cloth.  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

A  book  rather  out  of  the  ordinary  is  this  "Spirit  of  the  Border."  Th« 
main  thread  of  the  story  has  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  Moravian  mis 
sionaries  in  the  Ohio  Valley.  Incidentally  the  reader  is  given  details  of  the 
frontier  life  of  those  hardy  pioneers  who  broke  the  wilderness  for  the  plant 
ing  of  this  great  nation.  Chief  among  these,  as  a  matter  of  course,  is 
Lewis  Wetzel,  one  of  the  most  peculiar,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
admirable  of  all  the  brave  men  who  spent  their  lives  battling  with  the 
savage  foe,  that  others  might  dwell  in  comparative  security. 

Details  of  the  establishment  and  destruction  of  the  Moravian  "Village 
of  Peace"  are  given  at  some  length,  and  with  minute  description.  The 
efforts  to  Christianize  the  Indians  are  described  as  they  never  have  been 
before,  and  the  author  has  depicted  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the 
several  Indian  tribes  with  great  care,  which  of  itself  will  be  of  interest  to 
the  student. 

By  no  means  least  among  the  charms  of  the  story  are  the  vivid  word- 
pictures  of  the  thrilling  adventures,  and  the  intense  paintings  of  the  beau 
ties  of  nature,  as  seen  in  the  almost  unbroken  forests. 

It  Is  the  spirit  of  the  frontier  which  is  described,  and  one  can  by  it, 
perhaps,  the  better  understand  why  men,  and  women,  too,  willingly  braved 
every  privation  and  danger  that  the  westward  progress  of  the  star  of  em 
pire  might  be  the  more  certain  and  rapid.  A  love  story,  simple  and  tender, 
runs  through  the  book. 

CAPTAIN  BRAND,  OP  THE  SCHOONER  CENTIPEDE.  By  I,ieut. 
Henry  A.  Wise,  U.S.  N.  (Harry  Gringo).  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustra 
tions  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

The  re-publication  of  this  story  will  please  those  lovers  of  sea  yarns 
who  delight  in  so  much  of  the  salty  flavor  of  the  ocean  as  can  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  printed  page,  for  never  has  a  story  of  the  sea  and  those 
"who  go  down  in  ships"  been  written  by  one  more  familiar  with  the  scenes 
depicted. 

The  one  book  of  this  giftad  author  which  is  best  remembered,  and  which 
will  be  read  with  pleasure  for  many  years  to  come,  is  "Captain  Brand," 
who,  as  the  author  states  on  his  title  page,  was  a  "pirate  of  eminence  in 
the  West  Indies."  As  a  sea  story  pure  and  simple,  "Captain  Brand"  has 
never  been  excelled,  and  as  a  story  of  piratical  life,  told  without  the  usual 
embellishments  of  blood  and  thunder,  it  has  no  equal. 

NICK  OP  THE  WOODS.  A  story  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Kentucky.  By 
Robert  Montgomery  Bird.  Cloth,  lamo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  most  popular  novel  and  thrilling  story  of  early  frontier  life  in 
Kentucky  was  originally  published  in  the  year  1837.  The  novel,  long  out  of 
print,  had  in  its  day  a  phenomenal  sale,  for  its  realistic  presentation  of 
Indian  and  frontier  life  in  the  early  days  of  settlement  in  the  South,  nar 
rated  in  the  tale  with  all  the  art  of  a  practiced  writer.  A  very  charming 
love  romance  runs  through  the  story.  This  new  and  tasteful  edition  of 
"Nick  of  the  Woods"  will  be  certain  to  make  many  new  admirers  foa 
'-his  enchanting  story  from  Dr.  Bird's  clever  and  versatile  pen. 

GUY  FAWKES.  A  Romance  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  By  Wm.  Harri 
son  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  laino.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Price,  |i.oo. 

The  "Gunpowder  Plot"  was  a  modest  attempt  to  blow  up  Parliament, 
the  King  and  his  Counsellors.  James  of  Scotland,  then  King  of  England, 
was  weak-minded  and  extravagant.  He  hit  upon  the  efficient  scheme  of 
extorting  money  from  the  people  by  Imposing  taxes  on  the  Catholics.  In 
their  natural  resentment  to  this  extortion,  a  handful  of  bold  spirits  con 
cluded  to  overthrow  the  government.  Finally  the  plotters  were  arrested. 
and  the  King  put  to  torture  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  other  prisoners  with 
royal  vigor.  A  very  Intense  love  story  runs  through  the  entire  romance- 


BURT'S  SERIES  o/  STANDARD   FICTION, 

TICONDEROGA  :  A  Story  of  Early  Frontier  Life  in  the  Mohawk  Valley. 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  page  illustrations  by  J.  Watsott 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

The  setting  of  the  story  is  decidedly  more  picturesque  than  any  ever 
evolved  by  Cooper:  The  frontier  of  New  York  State,  where  dwelt  an  English 
gentleman,  driven  from  his  native  home  by  grief  over  the  loss  of  his  wife, 
with  a  son  and  daughter.  Thither,  brought  by  the  exigencies  of  war,  comes 
an  English  officer,  who  is  readily  recognized  as  that  Lord  Howe  who  met  his 
death  at  Ticonderoga.  As  a  most  natural  sequence,  even  amid  the  hostile 
demonstrations  of  both  French  and  Indians,  Lord  Howe  and  the  young  girl 
find  time  to  make  most  deliciously  sweet  love,  and  the  son  of  the  recluse  has 
already  lost  his  heart  to  the  daughter  of  a  great  sachem,  a  dusky  maiden 
whose  warrior-father  has  surrounded  her  with  all  the  comforts  of  a  civilized 
life. 

The  character  of  Captain  Brooks,  who  voluntarily  decides  to  sacrifice  his 
own  life  in  order  to  save  the  son  of  the  Englishman,  is  not  among  the  least 
of  the  attractions  of  this  story,  which  holds  the  attention  of  the  reader  even 
to  the  last  page.  The  tribal  laws  and  folk  lore  of  the  different  tribes  of 
Indians  known  as  the  "Five  Nations,"  with  which  the  story  is  interspersed, 
shows  that  the  author  gave  no  small  amount  of  study  to  the  work  in  question, 
and  nowhere  else  is  it  shown  more  plainly  than  by  the  skilful  manner  in 
which  he  has  interw«ven  with  his  plot  the  "blood"  law,  which  demands  a 
life  for  a  life,  whether  it  be  that  of  the  murderer  or  one  of  his  race. 

A  more  charming  story  of  mingled  love  and  adventure  has  never  been 
written  than  "Ticonderoga." 

ROB  OF  THE  BOWL  :  A  Story  of  the  Early  Days  of  Maryland.  By  Johti 
P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  latno.  with  four  page  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis. 
Price,  $1.00. 

It  was  while  he  was  a  member  of  Congress  from  Maryland  that  the 
noted  statesman  wrote  feis  story  regarding  the  early  history  of  his  native 
State,  and  while  some  critics  are  inclined  to  consider  "Horse  Shoe  Robinson" 
as  the  best  of  his  works,  it  is  certain  that  "Rob  of  the  Bowl"  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  list  as  a  literary  production  and  an  authentic  exposition  of  the 
manners  and  customs  during  Lord  Baltimore's  rule.  The  greater  portion  of 
the  action  takes  place  in  St.  Mary's — the  original  capital  of  the  State. 

As  a  series  of  pictures  of  early  colonial  life  in  Maryland,  "Rob  of  the 
Bowl"  has  no  equal,  and  the  book,  having  been  written  by  one  who  had 
exceptional  facilities  for  gathering  material  concerning  the  individual  mem 
bers  of  the  settlements  in  and  about  St.  Mary's,  is  a  most  valuable  addition 
to  the  history  of  the  State. 

The  story  is  full  of  splendid  action,  with  a  charming  love  story,  and  a 
plot  that  never  loosens  the  grip  of  its  interest  to  its  last  page. 

BY  BERWEN  BANKS.    By  Allen  Raine. 

It  is  a  tender  and  beautiful  romance  of  the  idyllic.  A  charming  pictnne 
of  life  in  a  Welsh  seaside  village.  It  is  something  of  a  prose-poem,  true, 
tender  and  graceful. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  romance  of  the  American  Revolution. 
By  Chauncey  C,  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  lamo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  |i.oo. 

The  story  opens  in  the  month  of  April,  1775,  with  the  provincial  troops 
hurrying  to  the  defense  of  Lexington  and  Concord.  Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched 
in  burnlmg  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery  and  true  love  that  thrills  from 
beginning  to  end  with  the  spirit  of  the  Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly, 
and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a  part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  Yen 
lay  the  book  aside  with  the  feeling  that  you  have  seen  a  gloriously  true 
picture  of  the  Revolution.  His  whole  story  is  so  absorbing  that  you  will  at*. 
•P  far  into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance  it  is  charming. 


POPULAR  LITERATURE  FOR  THE  MASSES, 
COMPRISING  CHOICE  SELECTIONS  FROM  THE 
TREASURES  OF  THE  WORLD'S  KNOWLEDGE, 
ISSUED  IN  A  SUBSTANTIAL  AND  ATTRACTIVE 
CLOTH  BINDING,  AT  A  POPULAR  PRICE 


BURT'S  HOME  LIBRARY  is  a  series  which 
Includes  the  standard  works  of  the  world's  best  literature, 
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chiefly  selections  from  writers  of  the  most  notable 
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many  important  works  in  the  domains 
of  History,  Biography,  Philosophy, 
Travel,  Poetry  and  the  Essays* 

A  glance  at  the  following  annexed 
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FOUX>WING  PAGES} 


HURT'S  HOME  LIBRARY.    Cloth.    Gilt  Tops.    Price,  $1.00 


Abfce      Constantin.         BY      LUDOVIC 

HALEVY. 

Abbott.  BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Adam  Bede.  BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
Addison's  Essays.  EDITED  BY  JOHN 

RICHARD  GREEN. 
Aeneid    of    Virgil.     TRANSLATED     BY 

JOHN  CONNINGTON. 
Aesop's  Fables. 
AlDxander,    the    Great.    Life    of.     BY 

JOHN  WILLIAMS. 
Alfred,  the  Great,  Life  of.     BY  THOMAS 

HUGHES. 

*Jhambra      BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  and  Through  the 

Looking-Glass.  BY  LEWIS  CARROLL 
Alice  Lorraine.  BY  R.  D.  BLACKMORE 
All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men.  BY 

WALTER  BESANT. 

Alton  Locke.     BY  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 
Amiel's     Journal.     TRANSLATED     BY 

MRS.  HUMPHREY  WARD. 
Andersen's  Fairy  Tales. 
Aline  of  Geirstein.     BY  SIR  WALTER 

SCOTT. 

Antiquary.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments. 
Ardath.     BY   MARIE   CORKLLI. 
Arnold,  Benedict,  Life  of.     BY  GEORGE 

CANNING  HILL. 
Arnold's    Poems.        BY      MATTHEW 

ARNOLD. 

Around  the  World  in  the  Yacht  Sun 
beam..     BY  MRS.  BRASSKY. 
Aruadel     Motto.     BY     MARY     CBCIL 

HAY. 
At  the  Back  of  *he  North  Wind.     BY 

GEORGE  MACDONALD. 
Attic  Philosopher.     BY    EMILB     SOU- 
VEST  RE. 
Autd    Licht    Idylls.     Br    JAMES    M. 

BARRIE. 

Aunt  Diana.     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Autobiography  of  Benjamin  Franklin. 
Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.     BY 

O.   W.  HOLMES. 
Averil.     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Bacon's  Essays.     BY  FRANCIS  B/.^ON. 
Barbara  Heathcote'i  Trial.     BY  KJSA 

N.  CAREY. 

Barnaby  Rudge.     BY  CHARLES  DICK 
ENS.. 
Barrack  Room  Ballads.     BY  RUDYARD 

KIPLING. 

Betrothed.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
.BetiJah.     BY  AUGTJSTA  J.  EVANS. 
Black  Beauty,     BY  ANNA  SEWALL. 
Slack      Dwarf.     BY      SIR      WALTER 

SCOTT. 

Slack  Rock.     BY  RALPH  CONNOR. 
Black  Tulip.     BY  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 
Bleak  House.     BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Blithedale  Romance.     BY  NATHANIEL 

HAWTHORNE. 

Bondman.     BY  HALL  CAINE. 
Book   of   Golden   Deeds.     BY    CHAR- 

10TTE   M.   YONGB. 

Boone,  Daniel,  Life  of.    BY  CECIL  B. 
HARTLEY. 


Bride     of     Lammermoor.     BY     SIR 

Y/ALTiiR  SCOTT. 

Bride  of  th«  Nile.     BY  GEORGE  ERERS. 
Browning's    Poems.     BY     ELIZABETH 

BARRETT  BROWNING. 
Browning's      Poems.       (SELECTIONS.) 

BY  ROBERT  BROWNING. 
Bryant's  Poems.  (EARLY.)     BY  WILL 
IAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 
Burgomaster's     Wife.     BY      GEORGB 

EBERS. 

Barn's  Poems.     BY  ROBERT  BURNS. 
By  Order  of  the  King.     BY   VICTOR 

HUGO. 

Byron's  Poems.     BY  LORD  BYRON. 
Caesar,    Julius,    Life    of.     BY    JAMES, 

ANTHONY  FROUDE. 
Carson,    Kit,    Life    of.     BY    CHARLES 

BURDEIT. 

Gary's  Poeins.     BY  ALICE  AND  PHOEBE 

CARY. 
Cast  Up  by  the  bea.     BY  SIR  SAMUEL 

BAKER. 
Charkmagce  (Charles  the  Great),  Life 

at.     BY  THOMAS  H^DGKIN.  D   C.  L. 
Charles  Auchester.     BY  E.  BERGER. 
Character.     BY  SAMUEL  SMILES. 
Charles      O'Mailey.        BY      CHARLES 

LEVER. 

Chesterfield's  Letters.     BY  LORD  CHES 
TERFIELD. 
Chevalier     rle     Maison     Rouge.     BY 

ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 
Chicot   the    Jester.     BY     ALEXANDRB 

DUMAS. 
Children  of  the  Abbey.     BY   RE  GIN  A 

M/--'-  '.  ROCHE. 
Child:,     History     of      England.     BY 

CHARLES.  DICKENS. 
Christrras     Stories.        BY      CHARLES 

DICKENS. 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth.     BY  CHARLES 

RiiADE. 

Coleridge's  Poems.     BY  SAMUEL  TAY 
LOR  COLERIDGE. 
Columbus,   Christopher,   Life   of.     BY 

WASHINGTON  IKYING. 
Companions  of  Jehu.     BY  ALEXANDRB 

DUMAS. 
Complete   Angler.     BY   WALTON   ANr- 

COTTON. 
Conduct  of  Life.     BY  RALPH  W"LD 

EMHRSON. 
Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater.     B 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 
Conquest  of  Granada.     BY  WASHING 

TON  IRVING. 

Conscript.      BY  ESCKMANN-CHATRIAX. 

Conspiracy  of  Pontiac.  BY  FRANCIS 
PARKMAN  JR. 

Conspirators.  BY  ALEXANDRK  DU 
MAS. 

Consuelo.     BY  GEORGE  SAND. 

Cook's  Voyages.  BY  CAPTAIN  JAMES 
COOK. 

Corinne.     BY  MADAME  DE  STABL. 

Countess  de  Charney.  BY  ALEXANDRE 
DUMAS. 

Countess    Gisela.    Bv    £.    MARLITT. 


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